


City of Angels

by Kinthinia



Series: Origin of Love [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Phil Coulson, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Barney Barton is a good guy, Beta Natasha Romanov, Clint has a realistic panic attack, Developing Friendships, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Omega Bucky Barnes, Omega Clint Barton, Omega Tony Stark, Phil Coulson dies but will revive, Romance, Secret Police, Slow Build, Slow Burn, hearing impairment, kind of cannon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 119,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinthinia/pseuds/Kinthinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the verge of turning fifteen, Clint Barton is sold to Hydra. For the next six years, Clint's identity is slowly stripped away as both the infamous Swordsman and the Winter Soldier train him into the elite assassin Ronin. But through the slow torture, Clint hangs onto the idea of freedom -of escaping from Hydra. With Bucky's help, the two of them manage to escape. Not even six months into his new found freedom and Clint realizes he has to trade one collar for another in order to save his only friend. Except, S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing like what Clint was expecting, especially not his handler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone Wants to Rule the World

Clint 

"I –I used to know him," Bucky stuttered out, his eyes on the newspaper spread out above him. 

Clint glanced up at the soggy newspaper, at the golden-haired hero pasted to the front of it. A droplet of rain saturated through the paragraph detailing the captain's heroics. "Yeah?" he asked, glancing at Bucky disbelievingly. He wasn't doing so great. 

Bucky's dark hair was damp and pasted to his sweaty forehead. He was sitting in their makeshift shelter, his arms wrapped around his legs as he shivered and trembled with the force of the fever that was eating him whole. The ratty hoodie he was bundled in did nothing to protect against the damp chill that was seeping through their cardboard hideout. It had been Clint's but it was two sizes too big for him and they both knew Bucky needed it more. 

"Went to school with him," Bucky murmured deliriously. "Used t'call him Stevie." He laughed a little at that, a sharp broken sound before he broke off coughing. 

Clint winced, hovering uncertainly. "Yeah?" he asked, hating the way his voice warbled on that one word. He didn't know what else to say. 

"Mm yeah. Was just a little guy," Bucky slurred, gesturing with his right arm. "Tiny thing. Used to get beat up all the time." 

Clint looked up at the picture. The guy there was a giant beefcake. No way was he the kind of guy to get into fights left and right, let alone lose them. The Purple Heart he was being presented seemed to indicate that Clint's assessment was right. Some hotshot, top of the world guy like Steve Rogers? No way he came from downtrodden little Brooklyn. He glanced back at Bucky nervously. Rogers probably just reminded him of his friend and he had the names mixed up. 

"Yeah," Clint commented softly, watching Bucky helplessly. 

He smiled wanly, his complexion a terrifying paleness. "I used to – to fight for him. Clean up his messes. He hated it." Bucky laughed again, a weak chuckle that was over before it really began. Too much like Bucky's own life. "Used to say he coulda handled it. He was always walking 'round bruised. Never told me who did it, but I'd find the guys. Not fair, pickin' on a guy like Stevie." He sighed quietly at that, coughing weakly as he shuddered, drawing up tighter against himself. His eyes slid shut and he was out cold once again. 

Clint scrubbed a hand over his eyes. What was he supposed to do? A week ago Bucky came down hard and fast with a cold that wouldn't go away. Neither of them could afford to be sick. Clint had bought what he could in the beginning; lozenges and zinc and whatever he could find that was loaded up with vitamin c. None of it helped. Bucky was going to die at this rate. Going back to Hydra wasn't an option. They'd risked their lives to get out of there –the thought alone sent a shiver through Clint that had nothing to do with the weather. It wasn't like he could just use a payphone, report Bucky as –nobody would come. They were two homeless kids. Nobody cared. Clint wasn't sick but he didn't want to risk moving Bucky. His arm still wasn't healed up yet and if he took him to a hospital they'd start asking questions. Questions Clint wouldn't be able to answer. And then they'd call the police and he'd be hauled off for questioning. Hydra would hear about it, and they would come and take back their assets. 

The word alone had Clint crawling out of the makeshift shelter, glancing back at Bucky worriedly. He was too pale, trembling and shaking, muttering under his breath as his fever dreams devoured whatever was left of his consciousness. Fuck. He couldn't let him die. There was a pharmacy just a few blocks away. Clint had tried to swipe some Tylenol yesterday but security found him out and let him go with a warning. Clint could play the first time offense card exceedingly well. He shuffled anxiously, glancing back at Bucky worriedly. If he didn't get something now, Bucky would probably die. Hopefully there would be a different security guard this time. 

Clint hunched his shoulders and set off across the street, heading to where he knew the pharmacy was located. He didn't want to waste any time by trying to find a different store; time was something neither he nor Bucky had much in excess of. Clint peeked inside the store, casually entering it as he canned for the security guard. He definitely didn't see the one who had been here the day before. A quick glance at the clerk showed that Clint had caught a lucky break for once. They were both new; didn't even give him a second glance. Clint sneezed, keeping his head down as he wandered down the aisle to the Tylenol. He skimmed over the symptoms they relieved, grabbing the first bottle that promised to relieve fevers and slid it into his sleeve as he wandered down the aisle again. He paused at the tissues, made a pained face at the price as he brought his hand up to wipe at his nose. 

His gaze lingered on the suppression bottle next to the tissues. It cost a fortune and anyone needing them required a doctor's note. Hydra used to handle all of that. But in less than a month, the last shot he and Bucky had would wear off. Everyone would know. They didn't have a plan about what they would do then, but they would deal. Clint sighed again, a little wistfully as he turned towards the door. His eyes widening in shock, he quickly turned back to examining the display in front of him as he clutched the bottle of medicine in his hand. Behind him, the door swung open, the welcome bell jingling merrily as the officer stepped inside. The guy wasn't wearing a uniform and the car parked outside was nondescript but it was obvious with how the guy walked and carried himself that he was an officer. 

Shit. Clint thumbed the bottle of pills in his hand anxiously. It wouldn't be the first time he had stolen something and it probably wouldn't be the last but he really didn't want to get law enforcement involved. He meandered around the store, eventually finding himself looking at the bottle of suppressants again. Could he be any more obvious? From the corner of his eye he saw movement, watched as the nondescript officer settled in next to him, picking up a bottle of cough syrup. 

"Waiting for the doctor's approval?" the officer asked him kindly, brown eyes twinkling. "I remember what that was like. I used to stare at the bottles, think how differently life would be if only I could get one. It took me a few months after that before I got the prescription and could stop staring at these things like they held the weight of the world in them." He gave a chuckle, picking up the bottle in his hand. 

Clint smiled, well-practiced with keeping his anxiety under control. "Yeah. I just turned twenty-one. Could finally get that appointment." It was a lie. Clint was barely twenty and Bucky was just twenty-four. No doctor would even take Bucky as a patient without proper employment papers; they wouldn't accept whatever flimsy or creative excuse he gave them. 

The officer nodded, smiling at Clint sympathetically. "My daughter's down with the flu right now," he sighed. "My wife sent me to get some cough syrup," he waggled the other bottle at that. "You should dress more warmly, kid. With this kind of weather?" The guy shook his head. "Flu's real bad this year." 

"I know," Clint said quietly, thinking of how quickly Bucky had deteriorated. He felt the bottle in his hand, keeping it cupped securely. Soon, he could help. 

The officer nodded before he stepped up to the counter, paying for the bottle of cough medicine and the suppressants. He walked back towards Clint, pausing for a moment before winking cheekily and handing over the bottle of suppressants. 

"I remember what it was like," the officer whispered. "They make a big deal out of it, but it's… whatever side effects you might feel, it's always worth it." He smiled gently, tipping his hand to Clint as he left the store. 

The clerks didn't notice anything. Clint pocketed the bottle as well and waited until the officer had driven away before he walked out of the store. The alarm went off and Clint run. He circled the block, leading anyone who might be following in the opposite direction of Bucky before Clint went the long way around to get back to his friend. Bucky had slid down against the cement wall, was lying in a writhing bundle as he shivered and whimpered pleadingly under his breath. 

Clint grabbed out the bottle of fever medication, opening it with shaky hands before he took out two pills and set the bottle aside. "Bucky," he said, hoping it would elicit a reaction. 

Bucky jerked back, closer towards the wall. "No," he moaned weakly, shoving his hand in Clint's direction. "No." He wasn't aware. 

"Bucky," Clint repeated, pleadingly. "C'mon, it'll make you feel better." 

"No," Bucky whimpered, trying to hide his face against his shoulder. 

Bucky knew what was going to happen next as well as Clint did. They'd been drugged before on multiple occasions by Hydra when they screwed something up. Tied down with leather restraints on what always felt like an operating table, a bright fluorescent light above them, pills were shoved down their throats. If they didn't give in or tried to fight, they had their noses plugged and were forced to swallow the pills anyway. Clint tried to force a pill into Bucky's mouth, but Bucky kept his lips and teeth clenched together. With a heavy heart, fearing for his life, Clint pinched the end of Bucky's nose and waited. When he opened his mouth in a gasp, a strangled wail on his lips, Clint shoved the pills into his mouth and pressed his hand over Bucky's lips. Bucky flailed and struggled, his sole arm slamming into the side of Clint's face. It was almost enough to knock Clint's grip aside as he waited for Bucky to swallow, disgust welling up inside of him as Bucky fought him. 

"It's just me," Clint pleaded, keeping his hand over Bucky's mouth. "You're safe Bucky. Please. Swallow. You're sick and you need to get better." 

Whether it was because Bucky had expended too much energy fighting or because he had actually heard Clint, Clint would never know. But he would always be grateful for the way that Bucky's body went slack as he swallowed the pills down. Clint winced, pulling away from Bucky hastily. At least Hydra had always had water handy. It got easier to just not fight them, to take the water and the pills; accept whatever the unknown drugs would do. Just because it got easier didn't mean that Clint always did the sensible thing. Sometimes he had to fight, because he could. He knew that Bucky had felt the same, had often done the same. Clint grabbed the two bottles of pills, fastening the lid back onto the Tylenol. 

He scanned the instructions; concentrating as he picked over the directions word by word until he could figure out how often Bucky would need to take the pills. Four hours before he could have another dose. Clint swallowed, setting the Tylenol down next to Bucky. He reached outside, swiping his finger along the wet grit of the asphalt. On the interior cardboard he left his coded message; he was going out for a bit but if it was dark outside when Bucky woke up, he would have to take another two pills. There definitely wasn't an if about Bucky waking up. Clint wiped his finger dry on his pants –there was no way any part of him would be clean or could be clean after all of this. He set the back of his hand over Bucky's forehead, wincing at the heat he could feel radiating off him. 

There was no guarantee that the pills would work. Bucky could very easily still need a doctor. And there were plenty of black-market doctors willing to help out when needed, the kind of doctor who wouldn't ask questions so long as there was money to pay. Clint paused, looking back at Bucky. Clint had no one else in his life and he wasn't sure he could live knowing he let Bucky die when there was something he could do about it. Grabbing the suppressants, Clint left the makeshift shelter that was mostly just a mess of soggy cardboard at this point. The ragged tarp over Bucky's half would keep him safe, but Clint wasn't sure how long the structure would remain standing at this rate. Clint headed down the narrow back alleys and to the storage spot he and Bucky had made. He glanced around carefully before he lifted the stones out of place. 

Clint grabbed the handgun, slipping the pills into its place before replacing the stones and concealing the weapon. He didn't exactly have a coat, but it fit underneath his shirt well enough. Buried under the street sign for Carriage Street and Bryant Crescent, the gun was dry and safe. They'd taken it from the last Hydra agent who had found them before leaving his body for the officials to find. No one would ever think to question a couple of street kids. Not in this day and age. Too many young kids would just go missing, stolen off the streets or out of backyards and family lawns. As far as Clint had been able to learn, Bucky was one of those kids. Clint had been a different kind of kid. He wasn't kidnapped against his will and handed off. No, Clint had been sold. 

Sometimes, a couple of years later, the kids would resurface. The ones who weren't desirable. The Betas, usually. Sometimes Alphas. Omegas would never be seen again. Clint never asked Bucky why he didn't go home; in return, Bucky never asked why Clint didn't try to find his brother. They'd spent too many years together to not know details of the others' life. Clint was sold when he was fourteen, on the verge of his fifteenth birthday to Hydra. Bucky had been stolen from the streets as near as Clint could figure when Bucky was thirteen. They both avoided talking about home, once Clint stopped hoping that Barney would show up to save him. It was too late for that. Clint had missed his chance and Barney had missed his, probably never even knew that it had come and gone. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. 

So they had been eking out a miserable life on the streets that was better than anything they'd ever had before. Well, it wasn't better than the circus exactly. And Clint doubted it was better than Bucky's home. But their memories of Hydra were more powerful and prominent and neither of them wanted to endanger anyone else by association. Clint swallowed tightly, feeling the weight of the gun pressed against the small of his back. He already had too much blood on his hands. The stains would never come off. Bucky no doubt felt the same. Two blood-stained, combat trained Omegas would never make a presentable or handsome partner. Omegas were delicate, polite and mild mannered. Clint was all muscle and scar tissue, a ticking time bomb of issues ready to go off at any second; Bucky was an even bigger mess of scar tissue, a missing arm and he frequently vanished entirely. Oh, he was there physically. But sometimes the parts of him that made up _Bucky_ just seemed to scatter entirely to the four corners. A couple of hours, sometimes days later, he would come back to himself with vague memories. 

Clint wandered the streets, asking the hard questions until he had a name. The clinic wasn't that far away from where their makeshift shelter was located. It was disguised as an herb shop but once Clint set foot inside he could already tell that it was clinical and better run than some of the questionable places he'd been to before. 

"How much for an examination?" he asked gruffly, watching the secretary startle into action. 

"Two hundred," she answered, smoothly. 

Clint hid his grimace at the figure. "My friend, he's… he's sick." 

"Two hundred," she repeated, her voice hard as steel. "Prescription costs vary. If he's got that flu that's been going around, the medication will run about one hundred and fifty dollars or more." She paused, her grey eyes giving Clint an unimpressed once over. "If we have to keep quiet about anything, there's a thirty dollar fee for that." 

Clint blinked and opened his mouth to argue. 

"Can't pay?" she interrupted before he could even begin. "Then get out." 

Three hundred and eighty dollars wasn't a bad price, really. Clint had been expecting worse. Biting his lip, he left the clinic and headed to the nearest bank. It wouldn't be his first time robbing a bank –it would be his first time attempting to do it without any back up and without any kind of a plan. Convenience stores didn't keep that kind of cash in a till and they were jumpier than bank clerks. Convenience clerks got shot pretty commonly; bank tellers not so much. Clint paused as he surveyed the bank, feeling the weight of the gun. Cameras everywhere. It didn't really matter if he got caught so long as he could get out of police custody before Hydra showed up. 

Clint walked into the bank, grateful to see it was deserted except for a couple of tellers, two customers and the security guards. They were clearly up to date on their training. He could see them advancing from his periphery. Clint pulled out the handgun, flipped the safety off and fired two shots without looking. They were both non-lethal. The first security guard went down with a pained cry, the bullet clean through his right hand. He wasn't going to be able to draw his gun in that condition. The second bullet went through the other security guard's left hand. He dropped with a pained cry, fumbling for his gun with his right hand before giving it up. 

Clint walked to the teller, leveling the gun at her. "Four hundred dollars," he demanded roughly. "Now." 

She squeaked, fumbling nervously as she counted the cash out, her eyes wide. Clint snatched the cash from her, wincing as he heard a police car pull up. He ran for the doors, kicking the security guard's gun from his weak grasp as he raced outside. Banks had silent buttons to call the police; he wasn't interested in shooting any more innocents. He'd done more than enough of that for one lifetime. Clint jumped across the nearest car to him, firing a shot at the police cruiser's back tire as he kept running. Hopefully it would slow the police down long enough. Clint cut through the back alleys and abandoned buildings, dropping the gun into a dumpster as he passed. 

He wasn't going to get away from this. He skidded to a stop, listening. There was only the distant sound of sirens. Grateful, he rushed back to his makeshift shelter where Bucky was still curled up. They'd been here for three months, maneuvering through the maze of alleys and side streets –Clint would have been surprised if someone had found and caught up to him. Impressed even. _Now for the hard part._ Clint helped Bucky to his feet, leaving the Tylenol behind with a pang of regret. It had done nothing for Bucky, certainly nothing noticeable. Bucky wavered on his feet and Clint hurried put his arm around his shoulders, leading him to the clinic. 

He froze every time he heard a siren, however far it was. They would circulating his picture soon. There was never enough time. He glanced at Bucky, wincing. Bucky's complexion was deathly white and there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Every few steps he would groan and cough weakly. Clint was half-carrying him and he doubted that Bucky would remember a single thing about this day when he woke up. Clint glanced at the lengthening shadows as the sun slipped behind a cloud. It was minutes until sunset. 

It was early evening by the time Clint got Bucky to the clinic, handing over a hundred of the money to the secretary as the doctor took Bucky into a back room. Clint hovered nearby anxiously. He alternated between pacing the length of the available room and drumming his fingers against his arm. It felt like forever before the doctor was stepping out to speak to him. 

"He has the flu. You're lucky you got him here when you did," he said, sternly. "There's no way he can go home. Wherever that is," he snorted derisively. 

Clint pinched his lips together to keep himself from punching the guy in the face. "Is he gonna be alright?" he demanded. 

The doctor eyed him. "You have the money for the drugs? I can treat him here. It's a hundred and fifty." 

Clint nodded, pulling out the cash and handing it to him. He ignored the way the doctor eyed him more suspiciously. "Look just… help him get better. And don't tell anyone anything," he added, shoving the last of his money towards the doctor. 

It was the best that Clint could do to try and ensure that Bucky would be okay. The doctor nodded and took the money, counting through it thoroughly. "I won't say a word. He's good to stay here." 

Clint nodded, feeling the exhaustion of the last week catch up to him. Well. Bucky would be okay. That's what mattered, really. Clint turned and left the clinic, walking down to the police station. He half expected that any second there was going to be a police car stopping and pulling him over. But no one did. Turning himself in was the last thing he wanted to do, but he'd already seen three media stations covering his unusual bank robbery. He wouldn't be able to get out of here and he wouldn't be able to do anything to help Bucky. Hydra knew he was here in the city, knew he was wanted by the police. 

He couldn't afford to lead them to Bucky. Clint was in good enough physical shape to stand up against whatever they threw his way. Bucky was not. If they caught Bucky now, he would probably die. Not from whatever they did to him, but because he couldn't stand to go back there again. Clint wasn't looking forward to it either, really. He walked into the police station, heard the way their mouths dropped open in shock and Clint dropped to his knees obediently, hands behind his head. 

If he could keep Hydra busy, just for a while, he could keep Bucky safe. He zoned out, allowing the officers to order him about as he went compliantly. They fingerprinted him but there was no match. They took his picture. Still, no matches came up. They asked for his name and Clint knew better than to give it to them. If they wanted something from him, they wouldn't just hand him over to Hydra. He hoped. 

It wasn't a surprise when they led him downstairs, marched him past the cells and down into the basement. They cuffed him up and left him hanging. It was nothing Clint wasn't used to. It used to be this was something reserved specifically for Omegas. Omegas were just property; they were the ideal baby bearer of the species. But with the Omega Rights fighting and winning court cases over the years, more and more people fell in line with the law. For the police, it meant that they could interrogate anyone they wanted like this. They still had certain laws to protect the prisoners, such as the police requiring a certain amount of evidence and having to file charges within the specified time limits. 

Many years before Clint was even born, there was an attack. It was an airborne virus and it started in a jail cell in the middle of the United States. It wiped out something like seventy-five to eighty percent of the global population. No one was ever really sure on the count. Those who survived the virus were altered. There were still two genders but each gender had an orientation, as Clint understood it. Alpha, Beta and Omega. Alphas were designed to impregnate and Omegas were designed to birth children. Betas however were still more closely related to the human species before it had been altered. In order to reproduce, it had to be a Beta male and a Beta female. During the times where Omegas and Alphas were incapacitated, Betas had to ensure the structures in the world were evolving and working to ensure population recovery. 

These days, Betas still outnumbered the Alphas and Omegas. Some scientists theorized that once the population had stabilized, Betas would make up about eighty percent of society while Alpha and Omega genetics would become recessive again. Over population would not help the country. As it stood with a volatile population and the police being blamed for the virus in the first place, the justice system had adapted to give the police certain freedoms. However in order to attempt to curb their propensity for violence, cameras were installed in every room and when police were patrolling they were expected to wear body cameras. 

Clint glanced at the camera in the room, relieved to see it was uncovered. A dumb thing to be relieved about, but he was, nonetheless. Habit really, of being in too many places that either didn't have cameras or always had them covered. There were fines for cameras placed so that the viewer couldn't see or when something blocked the vision, but if the sound systems worked the fines were smaller. Every Hydra facility Clint had ever been in lacked proper recording devices. Nothing worked or it simply wasn't installed. Clint learned first-hand why they weren't there. So it was a small relief to see a camera. 

Up until they brought the interrogator in. It had been several hours since they cuffed him up because he couldn't feel his arms anymore, and the pins and needles had long since come and gone. The interrogator didn't even try to go for subtle, tossing his jacket over the camera, rolling his sleeves up. He grinned wickedly, turning his wrist just enough that Clint could see the tattoo on the man's forearm. 

He was Hydra. 

Phil 

S.H.I.E.L.D. was first created as an offshoot, grassroots Omega Rights organization. They provided training in combat related specializations for anyone regardless of orientation and gender. But problems started to arise when other governmental organizations refused to take their trained Omegas and they banded together and changed S.H.I.E.L.D. until it was a force to be reckoned with. Under Director Fury's command, S.H.I.E.L.D. had more influence than even the CIA and the FBI. They were privy to everything going on in the country. Phil was proud to serve the organization; he was in charge of their Omega Rights section –he trained many of the Omegas and brought them out on foreign field assignments to preserve and protect Omegas in other countries. Places like Russia where they were still actively using Breeding Facilities; kidnapping Omegas off the street and locking them up for Alphas to enjoy. 

Phil did honest, good work. He wasn't unfamiliar with the murky waters that STRIKE teams often got mixed up in as he had been put in charge of an op or two, not to mention the few he had participated in as a younger man. But, if anyone were to ask Phil what he preferred, it was definitely training and working with Omegas. So many of them came to S.H.I.E.L.D. as their final resort or were recruited when they were on death row. It was Phil's job to train them, teach them how to make good use of their lives. Prove to them that Omegas were just as capable as any knot-headed Alpha. Phil liked being able to bring out the best of their skills and abilities. It was worth being proud of, seeing these terrified, traumatized men and women grow into confident and capable agents. 

And it wasn't to say that there were no drop outs or students who didn't learn as much as Phil would have liked them to. Same as any of the other handlers at S.H.I.E.L.D. Maria took care of the Alphas –she wasn't about to let any Alpha order her around and she wasn't going to let any Alpha order her into submission. Part of the requirements for being a handler required spending a portion of time with the new agents so they could be sure to assemble functioning teams. Therefore they had bi-weekly schedules throughout the levels of S.H.I.E.L.D. so senior agents like Phil and Maria could make time to educate and instruct new agents while continuing to work with their established teams. 

Which was to say that when Phil got home, he wasn't surprised his phone started ringing as soon as he set foot in the door. Really, everything considered, it was pretty expected. It was habit for Phil to turn the radio on and the only thing anyone was interested in talking about was the Omega bank robber who shot two guards without looking and stole exactly four hundred dollars and later handed himself into the police. Two days after the fact and it was still all the newscasters could talk about, repeating the footage, as though someone might spontaneously appear with information. No one had. 

"Coulson," he answered. 

"Have you seen the footage?" came Fury's crisp reply. "I want him with S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"He's a criminal," Phil pointed out casually. "Most of the new recruits will recognize him. Provided he's even willing." 

"He robbed a bank for four hundred dollars," Fury countered. "He'll do it for the money. And if he won't, you'll find a reason for him. Recruit him, Agent." The line went dead. 

Phil sighed very quietly and turned on his television, flicking to the local news station. Sure enough, there was the footage. Somehow, and Phil had a very strong feeling about this, he was pretty sure the Omega hadn't stolen exactly four hundred dollars because he needed the money. If he had, he would no doubt have done it sooner. Watching the way the young man moved, determined and with his eyes on the clerk, Phil had no doubt the Omega in question could have robbed the place without drawing needless attention to himself. His shooting was quite remarkable though. Two bullets fired and the man didn't even break stride or watch each bullet go clean through the guards' hands. The Omega didn't even look phased by the violence. If anything, he looked almost resigned to it. Phil couldn't say what left that impression except that there was something to the Omega's eyes. 

Phil exhaled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. They hadn't released the Omega's name over the networks yet, which most likely meant he was trying to protect his identity for some reason. From his family, possibly, or it was an attempt to preserve his reputation in case of a favorable match with a potential mate. He'd kept his head down, instinctively away from the cameras so his face was already safe from prying eyes. Phil paused, glancing at the man in the looped footage. No, whatever it was that motivated him, it had nothing to do with mates. This Omega wasn't a refined child of high society, a wilting flower waiting for his mate. He was muscular and good with guns, quite possibly combat trained; all traits many hotheaded Alphas would ignore or mock. 

It was a common attitude. Maria had the pleasure of being the one to beat it out of them when she got them in training. In turn, part of Phil's training was to help Omegas overcome whatever instincts they had in reaction to an Alpha giving an order. Despite what the media proclaimed, an Omega could disobey an Alpha's command, but it came with a price, especially for the Omegas S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited. S.H.I.E.L.D. trusted psychologists were always on site when Phil took the new agents into the gymnasium and gave orders they couldn't possibly follow. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't run the tests to break the new agents. They did it because the Omegas they took in and trained had often been in horrific situations and they needed to know their limits, to learn they could say no. Some of them ended up crying, others had no issues at all. There were only two field tests for this –once by Phil and once by the new recruits' regular handler. 

Phil replayed the news story and with an exhausted glance at the clock, dialed the police station that the Omega on the news had turned himself in to. Not for the first time, Phil was grateful for the political clout S.H.I.E.L.D. now carried. That was due mostly to Nick and his sheer stubbornness to make something of the organization but was due to Captain Rogers and Agent Carter. It had made Phil's life a lot easier over the years. 

"Metro police station, how may I help you?" 

"I would like to meet with the young Omega who turned himself in," Phil said politely. 

"I'm sorry, no reporters allowed," came the swift reply. 

Phil restrained a sigh. Of course they were going to interrogate the kid. They had probably already started. "I'm not a reporter. I'm an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"O-oh!" she said, her bubbly voice turning nervous. "I-I'm not sure what we can do about that, Agent…?" 

"Why don't I come down and meet with him right now? I can show you my badge and proper identification," Phil said smoothly. "Then I can meet the prisoner and we can decide where to go from there." 

"We don't have any information on who he is," the clerk whispered, clearly worried about being overheard. 

No doubt if she was sharing confidential information without even getting his badge number. Phil stopped himself from sighing, just barely. Everyone knew that the Omega had chosen to withhold that information but it wasn't something that was supposed to be confirmed quite so freely. 

"That's quite alright. We've got that covered," Phil lied. They would have it covered, and soon, once he got in to meet with the Omega. Hopefully. 

"Well I'll see you shortly Agent…" she trailed off expectantly. 

"Very soon," Phil agreed, ending the phone call without giving his name. Standard procedure in case the agency in question had an informant. It wasn't strictly procedure given that it was just a local police department, but Phil had always been a bit more of a stringent rule follower than most. When it suited him. He always hated having to meet with a potential recruit after an interrogator had gotten there first. 

Most cases, the interrogators weren't needed at all. But the police were jumpy and still trying to make it up to the public, trying to protect them against a repeat incident of what had happened almost a hundred years back. Their reputation would never be sterling –everyone blamed the police for their lack of caution. Nowadays they were harsh on their uncooperative prisoners, more so than they needed to be. But they were straddling a fine line of public perception and political pressure –neither of which everyday officers could cope with efficiently. Interrogators were called in just in case. It didn't make it right, but the public was loathe to condemn their use when it could potentially prevent the annihilation of humanity. Privately, Phil couldn't help but think that there was a better way. For everyone involved. 

Phil walked out into the hallway of his apartment building, locking his room before he went back down the four flights of stairs and to the curb. He hailed a taxi, knowing that his appearance was going to make a big difference in how everything played out with the Omega. A paper-pushing accountant with a classic car probably wouldn't win over the administration. He needed to be bland and unassuming, just another boring bureaucrat trying to please his boss. It worked rather effectively with most people. Harried officials who had paperwork to get done could relate all too easily to the pains Phil had to be going through. 

Phil walked into the station to discover it was full of disorder. The drive had barely taken twenty minutes. Traffic wasn't a problem especially not at this time of the night. So either something had come up and the officers were fretting about it or his visit had sent them into chaos. Neither of which was reassuring. Phil ambled over to the front desk, spotting the clearly anxious receptionist. Her hair had been thrown back hastily, was tangled with frizz and she jumped every time anyone walked too near her. Phil suppressed the urge to sigh –he had been hoping he would finish up here early enough to get home in time for dinner. That wasn't going to happen. 

"I'm here to see the prisoner," Phil said, smiling politely as the receptionist startled. "Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." He handed his badge over to her, noting the way her fingers shook as she took it. 

"O-of course," she stuttered. 

"Can you believe my boss called me in after hours to investigate this kid?" he asked her. 

"Everyone's been real curious," she agreed tentatively, her eyes glancing towards the basement door worriedly as she got up. "I'll just show this to the sheriff." 

Phil casually surveyed the office, stretching his neck as he mentally marked out the exits and counted police officers. They weren't bustling or anything, but the station wasn't totally deserted either. Could be a good sign, or a bad one. He let his gaze linger on the basement door; the cells would be through there and beneath them would be the prisoner. If everything was running smoothly here, the interrogator's room would be soundproofed and set up with surveillance equipment which included an audio recording of what was going on. Only high level prisoners were subjected to more intense interrogations, the ones who were suspected to have valuable information. Those interrogations often involved no cameras or disabled audio recordings. 

The receptionist returned with another nervous smile. "Looks like everything checked out. You're free to go see him," she said, gesturing to the cell door. 

Keeping his suspicions to himself, Phil entered the cells. There were drunk tanks and heat tanks, evenly spaced apart. There weren't many locked up, it was pretty quiet. It was not reassuring to see that the prisoners were being handled appropriately. Every step closer to the interrogator's room sent a corresponding bad feeling surging in Phil's gut. He ignored the prisoners, opening the door and walking down into the dimly lit basement. There was a chill present, the heating must have been lowered to increase tension on the Omega. 

Phil stopped himself as he rounded the corner. Hanging from the corner, suspended with his hands above his head was a Beta. At least, the pheromones scattered throughout the room screamed Beta and a Beta who had recently been through plenty of trauma. Phil forced himself to swallow, intentionally scuffing his foot against the concrete. The Beta twisted at the sound, snarling, incapable of doing anything. 

What confusion there was surrounding his orientation didn't matter. They could sort that out later once he joined up with S.H.I.E.L.D. It wasn't as though they were exclusive to only Alphas or Omegas. Unlike the army which took only Alphas and MI-6 which was notorious for taking only Omegas. 

"You fuck'in touch me again," he spat out, fighting against his restraints. His nuances on syllables were off but for no discernible reason. His ears were uncovered, unlike his eyes which had been blindfolded. 

"I'm not an interrogator," Phil replied, disgusted at the very notion. "I'm Agent Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." 

The Beta snorted derisively at that. "Like you're any better." 

Phil frowned. "I would say we're certainly more advanced than the interrogator here. Did he _blindfold_ you?" 

The Beta scoffed. "What's it look like to you? 'Cuz I gotta say I'm having a hard time seeing it myself." 

"I can't imagine," Phil replied dryly. "I'm going to remove it." 

The Beta seemed to be about to speak but at Phil's statement, he quieted. Phil undid the knot easily and tossed the blindfold aside with distaste. Most interrogators cleaned up after themselves better than this. A blindfold wasn't outside acceptable parameters. It was part of the atmosphere, of creating suspense and making the prisoner uncomfortable. 

"What do _you_ want from me?" the Beta asked, blinking as he adjusted to the low lighting of the dungeon. 

"I want to recruit you," Phil answered honestly. 

The Beta snorted, loud and echoing in the chamber. "I'm a criminal. You have to know that much. Your Homeland Division ain't gonna want me." 

"I'm not from Homeland Security," Phil corrected, just a little wryly. "I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"Same difference," the Beta all but growled, tilting his head up to scowl at Phil. "You don't want me." 

"The order my boss gave me disagrees with you." 

The Beta tilted his head to the side. "Riiiight," he drawled. 

Phil arched a brow. "I'm here on orders. Do you want to stay tied up here for longer or should I take you back to HQ where you can have a hot meal three times a day and earn pay?" 

"You don't want me," the Beta repeated, his voice hollow. 

Time for a different tactic, then. "They've been playing the footage for half the week," Phil argued. "You're a good shot, we need someone like you." 

The Beta gaped indignantly. "Good –good shot?" He sputtered. "I'm the best shot!" 

"I'll believe that when I see it." Granted, someone who could shoot that accurately without even looking was either lucky or a great shot. But the best? Phil doubted it. 

"Get me outta here and I'll prove it," the Beta growled, tugging on his restraints in frustration. 

"I'll need your name for that," Phil said gently, drawing his badge out. "I swear I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But to get you out of here and released into my custody, I need your name." 

The Beta looked at Phil distrustfully. "And if I don't?" 

Phil didn't bother suppressing his sigh this time. "You'll stay strung up here. The interrogator will come back and he'll continue until you confess or you die. Because in the law's eyes, a man too afraid to give up his own name must have done something truly unforgivable." 

If the Beta was surprised by that, he didn't show it. "What if I don't know my name?" 

"No one would believe you." Phil stepped back, towards the door. He wasn't sure he could leave the Beta strung up like this, but he was grateful that he didn't have to test and see what would happen if he did leave. 

The Beta grunted in exasperation. "Clint Barton," he ground out. "My name is Clint Barton." 

Phil smiled. "Thank you. I'll get you down as soon as I can. It might take a bit." 

The Beta –Clint –rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll just hang out here," he retorted caustically. "I don't have anywhere better to be." 

Phil definitely did not envy whoever got assigned to the Beta. He nodded briskly. "Good," he said unnecessarily before leisurely walking back up through the holding tanks to the main office. 

It seemed like everyone had been waiting until he emerged. Because as he stepped through the door, silence greeted him and as he set sights on the un-moving people, everyone flew into action. Officers were practically tripping over their own feet to get out-of-the-way. Which was odd, very odd. The sooner he got out of here with the recruit, the better things would be. Phil walked over to the receptionist who was practically radiating anxiety. 

"I need to speak with the sheriff," he said with a polite smile. "The guy down there? He's definitely the one my boss was looking for." 

"Her office is j-just over there," she stuttered out, gesturing to the only room. 

Phil walked over and apparently the receptionist had paged her boss, because the door opened before Phil could even knock and he was invited in. 

"So I hear you're the suit sniffing around here," she said bluntly, offering her hand. "Name's Tamara." 

"Phil," he replied, shaking her hand. "Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"What do you want with our illustrious bank robber?" She didn't sit down or offer Phil a seat as she leaned back against her desk casually, territorially. 

"That's confidential," Phil said, keeping his posture loose and easy despite Tamara's presence. "We've been investigating him for a while." 

Tamara scoffed. "He's a homeless Omega hooked on suppressants," she growled. "S.H.I.E.L.D. can't be interested in the likes of him." 

Well, that certainly explained why he smelled like a Beta. "We're looking into a cartel," Phil offered. "Trying to figure out where they get their supplies. The guy downstairs? He's a low-level runner, but he's the one making the trips across the border. A bit stubborn but our cells are better suited to get out a confession from him." 

Tamara barked a laugh at that. "A bit stubborn? Bastard's been here for days and he wouldn't even give up his name." 

Phil smiled patiently. "I've got my orders to take him off your hand. I can call my boss, if you want to clear it with him first." 

Tamara waved his offer off. "No, no. Just get the kid out of here. Maybe you guys can smarten him up a bit." She stood, pulling out a key from her desk.

"We'll do our best," Phil agreed, catching the key she tossed to him.

"If I see him on the streets again, I'll be calling you guys up."

"I'll be grateful if you do," Phil assured her.

They exchanged brief farewells, and she returned his badge back. In turn, Phil handed her his card. If she called, it would get passed to one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. receptionists. Important information would get relayed back to him. Phil returned down to the interrogator's room where Barton was dangling. His eyes were on Phil before he finished getting to the bottom of the stairs. Phil offered him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, before undoing the restraints that bound Barton.

Barton winced, staggering as he landed on his feet, wobbling. For a moment Phil feared he was going to have to steady the other man when Barton seemed to regain his balance.

"Get me outta here," he muttered, pulling away from Phil. 


	2. After the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Elundari for betaing! :D
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments; I hope you guys enjoy!

Clint 

Well, it made a lot more sense now, Clint supposed. Why the interrogator had taken off so quickly and then officers had descended and dressed him in something appropriate; to hide the marks from the fancy government agent. Clint snuck a glance at Coulson who was leaning against the opposite door, doing something complicated on his phone. If he had any sense, he'd be telling his boss what a colossal waste of time Clint was going to be. But he needed to get out of that police station; he couldn't risk the Hydra agent coming back. He also couldn't risk letting a repeat of this flu happen with Bucky either. Clint shifted carefully, watching Coulson from the corner of his eye. It was impossible to get comfortable –all the officers had done was cover his wounds up, they hadn't treated them. 

No one cared about homeless kids really. It wasn't news. It was, however, the first time Clint had been in police custody unable to escape. Was it convenience that the Hydra agent had been there or had the man known? He kept his questions pointed, always asking for Clint's name or orientation. Clint had let the latter slip out at some point, he knew, but he couldn't pinpoint when. Just that the Hydra agent had thought repetition use would get the same result. It hadn't. Clint zoned out at that point, retreating into himself so he gave nothing else away. 

Not that giving them his name would have amounted to much. Maybe a birth certificate and a few school records from back when he bounced around between foster homes. Long before he and Barney escaped to join the circus. Hydra had never much cared for his name –in fact, they rarely used it. Bucky was the only person who called him by it, but they still had to be careful. The superiors would have gotten antsy if they knew. Clint was Ronin and for a long time he was partnered with Bucky, back when Bucky was just the Winter Soldier. What would have been more problematic were the fingerprint and DNA tests they wanted to run. Hydra never much cared about how a mission was handled so long as it got done. 

Coulson was a tricky guy; he seemed to sense that Clint wanted to get the hell away from the station and as such, Coulson kept annoyingly close. Clint hadn't managed to get more than a step away from the agent without him noticing, right up until they got into the taxi. As soon as they were in, Coulson pulled out his cell phone and was quickly engrossed in it. 

The chills crawling across his body had him fold his arms across his chest in a way that did nothing to ease the pain in his back. The pressure from the car seat against his injuries made it feel like his back was on fire. The next red light or stop sign they hit, Clint was bailing. He'd be fine. He'd had worse. Stealing a little antiseptic and some gauze wasn't difficult; he'd been doing it for years. Neither were stored as securely or obviously as a bottle of fever medication. Clint clenched his teeth; what the hell was Bucky going to think? He'd think Clint had either been caught or abandoned him to the doctor. He wouldn't be entirely wrong on the captured front. Would Bucky even survive the medical treatment or was it too late? 

Bucky was going to be fine. They made it in time. Clint hoped the doctor would keep his word. Clint's fingers twitched –he desperately wanted to have a weapon at hand, just so he felt a little safer. Also it would be handy in case the agent tried to chase him down when he bailed. Clint studied Coulson out of the corner of his eye. Despite the suit that concealed everything, Clint was pretty sure the guy was not all that out of shape. For one, he was a legit government worker and secondly, he didn't really seem like the paper-pusher type. 

"Barton," Coulson said, swiping his finger across his phone screen without looking up. "I may have neglected to mention some important facts about your recruitment to S.H.I.E.L.D." 

Clint bristled. "Like what?" 

"If you try escape, we will make sure you end up before a judge. Given that you're clearly recognizable as the robber, you will end up in jail." 

Clint scoffed in disbelief. S.H.I.E.L.D. was every bit as cunning and deceptive as they were said to be. "You're forcing me to join." He shook his head, glancing at Coulson's reflection in the mirror. 

"Neither of those guards are going to be able to work again. You've traumatized half the bank tellers and given some local psychologists years of business with this stunt. You can't walk away from this with no punishment. You pass our tests, serve a minimum of three years with us and you're your own man." 

"And if I jump out the door at the next stop light?" 

"I'll personally chase you down. You wouldn't get far. Your face is plastered across every news outlet in the county." 

Clint turned, looking out his window irately. Shit. "Do I get any free time to myself?" he asked bitterly. 

"After a few months," Coulson answered. "When we can trust you enough not to run off. 

A few months? Watching the city vanish behind them, Clint knew he had missed whatever opportunity he might have had to leave a message for Bucky. 

"What about my personal belongings?" he asked, more to be an ass than because he expected Coulson to order them back to Clint's cardboard home. 

Coulson blinked in surprise. "Is there anything you need?" 

Even if Coulson did take the taxi back to Clint's makeshift home, there was nothing there that Clint could even remotely pretend belonged to him. All he owned were the clothes on his back. He'd burned the robes and tossed the armor he walked out of Hydra with. The police station had confiscated the two knives he carried with him and returned them to Coulson upon Clint's release… Bucky on the other hand was always a little more on edge. He squirreled away knives like dogs buried their bones. 

"Yeah," Clint said decisively, squaring his shoulders. The flare of pain up his back was almost too much to conceal, but he managed. He could feel one of the wounds oozing blood. 

"Where's your… home?" the agent asked, almost wincing at the indelicate phrasing. 

Clint gave his address and the cabbie turned around and drove them back towards the familiar neighborhoods. Clint was surprised when Coulson didn't get out and follow him down the side-streets. Then again, there was still plenty of water and mud scattered about –Coulson probably didn't want to risk his precious leather shoes. Unsurprisingly, his and Bucky's territory hadn't been touched. They'd been pretty clear about what happened to the folks who wandered too near. He rounded the corner, wincing at the sight of the collapsed ruin that was once his home. Nothing but a mess of wrinkled, soggy cardboard now. Clint glanced over his shoulder, even more surprised when he realized Coulson hadn't followed him. 

Odd. He pulled out a loose stone, plucking their spare blade from the cramped space. Using his knife, he scratched at the cement wall. He etched out a bow and arrow, a plus sign and the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem. It would do. At the very least, Bucky could put together the story. Any wandering strangers would just see a bow and arrow plus an eagle insignia. Not everyone was familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logo. Clint got back up to his feet, walking back to the taxi. Coulson hadn't even moved. Clint sat down, pulling his seatbelt on, ignoring the white-hot flare of pain as another wound re-opened. 

The pain and the familiar weight of a blade in his hand triggered an automatic reaction. He reached over, grabbed Coulson's hand, and pressed the knife harmlessly against the agent's palm. Long ago it had been beaten into Clint to surrender his weapons –it was habit; an instant and unforgiving compulsion that he was quick to obey. Clint swallowed hard against the stinging pain in his back, staring at the blade he had willfully surrendered to Coulson. Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. weren't unknown to each other. There was no way Coulson wouldn't put it together. It wasn't –it wasn't possible. 

"Thank you," Phil said slowly, the tiniest wrinkle of a frown between his brows. "But this is yours. It must be valuable to you." 

Clint forced out a laugh, taking the knife back hastily. "Yeah." 

He wracked his brain for something else to say but nothing came to mind. Just echoing silence. He was in the presence of someone with higher rank –Clint could not be trusted with projectile weapons or weapons at all. He had to surrender them. He used to fight, used to think it meant something more than a token resistance. In turn, they proceeded to search him when he returned from missions to make certain he was unarmed. Accidental or not, if he was found to be with a potential weapon –whether or not he utilized it –they hauled him in front of an interrogator. Clint got used to it, expecting to be searched the same way that Bucky was accustomed to being muzzled and chained down. 

Clint bit his lip, rolling his shoulders roughly as he leaned back against the seat. The familiar rush of agony was more grounding than he wanted to admit. "Didn't want you to freak out or something, if you realized I had it," Clint mumbled out, breathing in deeply against the pain. It wouldn't be long before his blood soaked through the gauze and then through his shirt. Coulson probably didn't care unless he was at risk of ruining some furniture. 

Clint stole another glance at the agent, and adjusted his stance. Coulson had to know by now. Interrogators were never kind. Clint doubted they even knew the meaning of the word. Coulson probably didn't care either. Clint was just a tool to be used –point and shoot. His 'handlers' got to sleep at night in their cushy beds while Clint woke up with nightmares, dreaming of the innocents he had cut down to get to the target. Men and women with families –sometimes the kids had even been present. But orders were orders and disobedience never failed to hurt. 

"So," Clint said loudly, maybe a little too loudly, "you mentioned something about tests?" Anything to end the heavy silence, to distract Coulson from putting together Clint's connection to Hydra. No harm in trying. 

"A standardized physical assessment, field training assessment, shooting assessment and a psych evaluation," Coulson rattled off easily. "Then a few simpler ones to determine any areas that need focus." 

"And if I fail?" 

Coulson blinked. "If you fail the physical we'll find something for you to do. Field training or weapons failure just means you get to spend extra time working to get your skills up." Clint snorted –as if those were the tests he was worried about. At least at the physical his wounds would be seen to. "If you don't pass the psych evaluation, well, unless you turn out to be a psychopath it won't be a problem. They'll want you in a few sessions to help with things. The others, again, just mean more time studying." 

"Then they're not really tests," Clint said, relieved. Tests meant you passed or you failed –failure meant punishment. Clint knew how that worked. 

"I suppose not," Coulson said after a pause. "If you're as good as you say, you shouldn't be worrying anyways." 

Clint rolled his eyes. "Seriously. I'll blow you away." 

Coulson smiled amusedly as the taxi came to a stop in front of a boring office building. Government workers. It did have some sort of modern architectural design to it though, Clint thought as he got out. It was hard to make out the shape in the dark, but he thought the upper floors of the building were different. Also, the entire thing was basically a cylinder. S.H.I.E.L.D. was definitely buddy-buddy with some high ranking government officials. 

"I'm going to take you to medical for your physical," Coulson said as he got out of the taxi, adjusting his suit. "And while you're there, I'm going to be running a full background check on you. For your own benefit, is there anything you want to tell me before I find it on my own?" 

Clint blinked at him in confusion. He wouldn't find anything. In all honestly, after he was fourteen he had probably disappeared off the map. He doubted Barney bothered to sell him through proper channels considering it was Hydra. It wasn't like there was going to be a certificate for graduation from Hydra's academy of Control-Mongers. In case it wasn't obvious, Clint had been one of the ones being controlled. 

"Your name is really Clint Barton?" Clint nodded. Coulson didn't seem surprised by that. "And when I pull your background check am I going to find more criminal records?" 

"No," Clint replied carefully. "Not a one." 

Certainly not any physical records that S.H.I.E.L.D. could get their hands on so easily. Hydra didn't even use his name. He was just Ronin. 

Coulson nodded. "Good. This way, please," he said, heading down a long corridor. "You'll note the painted trims? You're only permitted in areas with blue. Do not find yourself in an area with gold trim, because you will be shot on sight and interrogated. You will be physically escorted from areas with purple trim and then put on lock down." 

Clint made a face. "You're gonna interrogate me after you shoot me? You guys really need my help." 

"I never specified with what, Mr. Barton," Coulson answered, clearly amused as he ushered Clint down a flight of stairs and into a medical room. "Doctor Taylors," Coulson greeted warmly. "Our newest potential recruit." 

The woman turned around, smiling affectionately. Her dark eyes lit up, some of the heavier wrinkles around her eyes and lips vanishing entirely with her joy. "Agent Coulson," she said, before turning to Clint. "And who is our newest guest?" 

It took Clint an embarrassing long time to realize that she was speaking to him. "Clint!" he blurted. "I'm Clint Barton." It was nice, being able to use his own name again. 

"Wherever did Agent Coulson pick you up?" She laughed at her own joke. "Don't worry; you don't have to tell me. I get it. The superspy stuff." She shook her head, black curls bouncing. "This way please." Clint followed her, casting an anxious look over his shoulder only to find that Coulson was gone. 

It turned out she had led him to a private, enclosed shower stall. There was clean soap, fluffy towels and what was no doubt hot water. It was tucked away at the end of her small room. Clint scanned the room as he followed her, noting the x-ray machine, the plentiful swabs, thermometers and syringes. Everything looked professional, clean and organized. Dr. Taylors didn't linger more than necessary, pointing out how the door locked and making small talk. However, she did seem to feel almost bad about the lack of windows in the room. No doubt to prevent prisoners like Clint from escaping. 

"Wait," she said, reaching towards him. "You're injured!" 

Clint froze, slowly turning around to face her, keeping his unprotected back safe from her grasp. "And if I am?" he asked, backing away cautiously. 

Dr. Taylors looked almost offended. "I'm not here to hurt you," she said, lifting her hands in surrender. "If you're injured, at least let me treat that first." 

Clint shook his head adamantly, slipping into a fighting stance without a second thought. 

Doctor Taylors brows drew together and she pursed her lips. "I have to clear you for your physical," she explained haltingly. "I'm a trained physician. S.H.I.E.L.D. trusts my judgments. I can't pass you if I don't even get to examine you." 

Clint scowled. "Fine," he snapped, yanking his shirt off roughly. It was too easy to ignore the sting of pain that accompanied the movement. It wasn't like he had another option. 

Dr. Taylors was more experienced than he expected. She didn't make a sound of surprise, instead she ushered him out of the shower room and back into the exam room. Unlike his usual experiences with most doctors, she encouraged him to sit where he liked. He perched on a stool, hovering anxiously while Dr. Taylors patiently cleaned the wounds. Clint was surprised that she made no comment about his condition. Honestly, Clint couldn't remember the last time he had hot water to bathe with. Mostly he kept himself presentable by stealing into local store bathrooms and washing his hands and his face. His clothes were in disrepair and he had no illusions about his body odor. 

"Interrogator got a little rough," she commented instead, her voice clipped with disapproval. 

"Usually are," Clint responded warily. 

Dr. Taylors exhaled patiently and finished dressing his wounds. "I've cleaned the welts as best I can. I'll do more once you've showered. Take as long as you want." As he got up to head back towards the shower, she shoved a pair of scrubs at him with a small jar balanced on top. "Wear those and pee in the cup." 

She shooed him off and Clint followed her directions. Locking the door behind him, he stripped out of his filthy clothes, setting them aside. He turned the shower on without a second glance and peed in the cup. He set it next to the clean scrubs before gratefully stepping under the spray of hot water. It felt better than he would ever admit, to be under hot water, to be able to take a bar of soap and physically scrub the grime and dirt from his body. It was a relief to see the milky brown tendrils vanish down the drain. Part of him felt the need to be quick, to hurry and ignore her orders but it was too easy to relax under the hot water. If he were still capable of it, Clint imagined that he might have lost track of time standing under the shower. 

Clint stepped out, his skin bright red with irritation but blissfully clean. The hot water had staved off the worst of the ache in his shoulders, but he was sure he would be feeling it again by tomorrow. He threw a towel around himself, hurriedly drying off before throwing the scrubs on. He glanced back at his filthy clothes as he took the cup back out to the examination room. Dr. Taylors was sitting at her desk, typing on her computer and she waved Clint over without looking up. 

"Just on the desk dear," she said, gesturing vaguely. 

Clint awkwardly set it down. "My –my clothes-?" 

"We'll have someone deal with it," she said, turning to him. "Unless there's something you'd really like to salvage?" 

Clint shook his head. Dr. Taylors finished up whatever she was doing on her computer, waved Clint to the side and then she proceeded to get up close and way too personal for Clint's liking. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd had blood drawn or his blood pressure tested, but it was the first time he hadn't been tied down for it. It was also the first time anyone explained what they were doing. Dr. Taylors seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing what made Clint anxious and uncertain. As she drew out an unfamiliar object, she explained what it was and how it worked before using it. Was this something all doctors did? Clint couldn't help but wonder. It was very different from his past experiences. Clint fought against his body's instinct to fall asleep, to relax as he followed Dr. Taylors' every move and tried to memorize every item she used and catalogue its use. It was valuable information and he wasn't sure if he would ever get the chance to learn it again. He couldn't risk missing a second of what she said or did. 

S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't made much of an impact on Clint, but one thing he could definitely say was that they had far better medical staff than Hydra. If every doctor was like Dr. Taylors Clint couldn't imagine why anyone would ever defect from S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint was even more surprised that by the time they finished the physical assessment –which was extremely, alarmingly thorough –it was dawn outside. (Was it really important to know who he had been with and when he had been with them? Half that stuff was restricted and Clint hadn't exactly been first in line for the mission). Dr. Taylors didn't say much even as she led him upstairs, following the safe blue trim before knocking on an office door. Coulson poked his head out, looking perfectly put together except for the slow, sleepy blink he gave them. 

"The physical's done now, Agent Coulson," she said warmly, her cheeks turning pink. 

What did she even see in the guy? Clint couldn't fathom it. Sure he was an Alpha, but he looked closer to thirty and had a receding hairline. No matter what anyone said, not all Alphas were born big, buff and gorgeous. Much like how not all Omegas were born lean, skinny and delicate. Clint was as far from the ideal Omega as Coulson was from the ideal Alpha. Clint found himself hoping that Dr. Taylors had better sense and reason to like Coulson for something more than just biology and a roll of the dice. 

"Oh," he said, opening the door wider. "I'll take him down to the range in a few." 

Dr. Taylors smiled brightly. "Okay." 

Coulson waved Clint in and he had a moment to appreciate the awkward silence that stretched between the two of them. Coulson seemed pretty oblivious and after a second, Dr. Taylors said goodbye and then she was gone. Coulson left his door open and Clint took the chance to examine his office. There was a lot of Captain America paraphernalia –the old type, not the new Steve Rogers Captain America merchandise. This was the classic red-white-and-blue, small antique shields and a lamp. The original Captain America title belonged to the first Alpha soldier who served in America. There were comics and video games and movies about the guy. How he changed the army and other alphabet agencies into accepting Alphas into a workplace that had traditionally been full of Betas. It was all very heroic and inspiring to the Alpha population, as Clint understood it. He'd personally never understood the point of the guy. It'd been about eighty years since the guy died and Clint was surprised to see that Coulson actually had some of his merchandise. There was a nice worn looking couch tucked at the back of the office, a thin sheet spread over it. Maybe Coulson had been catching some shut-eye when they disturbed him. 

"It'll be a couple of hours yet before the instructors are in the building," Coulson commented as he walked over to his desk. "I imagine the last forty-eight hours haven't been full of rest. Until you've been cleared, I can only offer you the couch." 

In most other situations getting to sleep would have been nearly impossible. But Clint stretched out on the couch warily, his senses on alert and let himself drift off. He woke with a start every time Coulson's chair squeaked, or Coulson shifted, which –thankfully –wasn't very often. It was far better than the forty-eight hours he had gone without sleep previously. He had gone without sleep for longer, but it was nice to be able to sleep. The worst part was that he was barely out for more than four hours before Coulson was pushing his chair back and standing up. Clint was off the couch and sitting upright, casually, by the time Coulson had turned to him. 

Coulson offered him a wry smile. "The instructors are ready for you now." 

Clint followed him downstairs to the familiar sight of a well-equipped gym. There were mats spread out over the floor and there was a man standing in the center. He introduced himself briskly as Call-Me-George, explained what he was looking for and then proceeded to engage Clint in a fight. As Clint grappled with his opponent, he was acutely aware of Coulson observing them. The years of training he'd been put through prevailed as he dodged and countered the instructor's moves fluidly. There had only been a handful of Hydra agents who were superior to Clint in hand-to-hand combat. His training had been left entirely to the Winter Soldier and the Swordsman. (Clint hadn't been the only one sold out). 

The S.H.I.E.L.D. instructor was good, but he wasn't anything special. Clint was still tired and aching, too acutely aware of the mistakes he made –his blocks were slower than usual, his punches weaker –but he had been trained how to work through the pain. Either way, it was less than ten minutes before he had the instructor down on the mat. 

"Really?" he asked, turning to face Coulson. 

Coulson shrugged. "He's just here to assess your skills, Barton. Seems to me we have everything we need. Shooting range next." He didn't bother waiting and was already moving onto the next room, Clint scrambling to catch up to him. 

Phil 

To say that Barton's skill with a gun was anything less than legendary would do a disservice to the man. Phil was honestly tempted to do so, just to knock Barton's ego down but it was obvious the man had talent and he knew it. Having left him in the psych department's capable hands, Phil returned to his office and pulled up the results he'd received regarding Clinton Francis Barton; the only Omega to have been born in the last twenty years who fit Clint's description. 

His parents, Edith and Harold, were hardly the traditional family for someone of Clint's origins. Edith and Harold were both Betas. The chances of them conceiving an Omega were exceptionally low. Indeed, their first son –Charles Barney Barton –was born a Beta as well. Phil winced at the brief notes of many social service workers who acknowledged that there was trouble in the family. Harold's favoritism of Charles, his abuse of his wife and the neglect Clint faced. Apparently the brothers had a good relationship, though. And then Edith and Harold died in a car accident and both brothers vanished. They resurfaced not long after at a foster home. There were records of enrollment in school before they were shuffled to another home and another before finally being shunted into an orphanage. 

They were there for barely eight months. Apparently the workers kept trying to separate them, placing them in homes apart from each other in an attempt to find a permanent placement but the brothers would evidently escape and run off together. Clint was six and his brother ten when they finally succeeded because they disappeared. Not one whisper of their names in any legal databank. Eight years later, Charles resurfaced having enrolled himself in college where he proceeded to obtain a GED and start work on a mathematics degree before signing up to join the FBI. Meanwhile Clint appeared to be enrolled in a private academy that was unlisted to protect the identity and confidentiality of their illustrious students, his address showing he was living in an upper class neighborhood under guardianship of Jacques Duquesne and James Barnes. Even more unusual was the fact that there were no records for James Barnes (beyond a birth certificate) and the only records for Duquesne seemed to indicate that he was not suitable in a parental role. 

Nothing at all to explain Clint's martial arts or his shooting skills. Natural talent perhaps? Something about it didn't sit right, Phil frowned at the records in front of him. Clint was an average student, didn't engage in any extracurricular activities or clubs. Despite that, he was often in trouble with the faculty for starting fights. There were a couple of notations by a nurse about injuries sustained but it was all very high school. Nothing serious or permanent, just enough to warrant the student being sent to the principal and then home with a teacher's note. It didn't explain where Clint had learned new skills or enhanced them over the course of three years. Phil was more than willing to bet Barton had gone easy on his instructor. Assessment supervisors were just there to assess. George wasn't all that special; he was a retired field agent who was known for making solid assessments. He was not the best fighter and Barton had made his derision obvious. 

Dr. Taylors had already sent him the preliminary assessment of Barton and it was both good and bad. Like a few of their other agents, she recommended that Barton be added to her primary patient list. It wasn't that uncommon and Phil could probably thank his lucky stars that she was working today. If he were thinking clearly, well rested and energized, he would have considered that possibility on his own. Abused Omegas were a common staple of society, something S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few other organizations were working to change. (There was a volunteer program run in coordination with social services that had volunteer agents helping teach defenseless members of the population self-defense –they weren't exclusive to Omegas but there were some specific classes for Omegas only if requested). Phil used to volunteer with them when he had time enough to eat and sleep every day –now, that was a rare occurrence but they weren't short on volunteers either. 

Aside from some physical injuries, all of which were tallied down, Barton was in peak physical form. Nausea flooded Phil as he read about the whipping Barton had evidently received. Phil thought back to the taxi, the odd way Barton was behaving as he squirmed around and refused to settle. He'd honestly thought it had more to do with nerves than anything else. Barton didn't look like he was in pain or discomfort. It was a disturbing thought. According to Dr. Taylors' report, Barton was lucky that the interrogator had only been warming up to start asking the tough questions, he would get away without scar tissue. Which led into another note, this one much more detailed than Phil was accustomed to seeing from Dr. Taylors. She liked to keep things brief and to the point. 

As the standard physical examination covered everything, she had seen virtually every part of Barton. And documented every scar. She made note of the unusual scarring along the backs of his thighs and lower back, commenting that she wasn't sure what the cause was but that it must have been someone's preferred way to keep Barton under control. As if a kid needed to be kept under control. Phil frowned in displeasure, thinking back to some of Barton's pointed questions about the consequences of failure, the odd way he had suddenly handed the knife to Phil –as though he was placing his life in Phil's hands, there had been an odd weight to that familiar gesture that Phil couldn't quite place. The mystery of Clint Barton would not be one he could unravel overnight. Plus running on two hours of sleep and a few too many cups of coffee wasn't enough to slow him down. 

Once Fury caught sight of those shooting scores and the combat ones, he wouldn't care about Barton's psych or physical results. Sheer talent –the kind of talent that Barton possessed - wasn't something that could be wasted away. Barton could do wonderful things with his skill. Granted, he had the same capacity to do wrong, but S.H.I.E.L.D. would hopefully be able to guide him away from whatever inclinations he might have towards wrong-doing. He had joined of his own free will. It was always important to acknowledge that strength of character in the more timid or nervous of his students. At any rate, it wouldn't do Barton any harm to hear it. 

The sharp ring of his phone jarred Phil from his thoughts. "Coulson." 

"Well?" came the distinctly smug voice of Fury. 

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "His scores are shocking in combat and shooting but we're still waiting on his physical and psych status, sir." 

"What do we know about him?" 

"Clint Barton, twenty years old, Omega. Born in Iowa, raised in New York. There's a period of eight years missing from his file, he has a collection of scars and an ego that will get him in trouble –but he has the skills to back up his claims." 

"Will he work well here?" Fury demanded. 

"I think he might. He certainly has the skills." 

As usual with his boss, Fury hung up without so much as a goodbye or thank you. Though he was certain if the latter ever happened, Phil might die from a heart attack. It set the tone for the rest of the day. At some point, someone must have directed Barton to the barracks where the new recruits spent their time. Phil didn't even have a chance to check it out as he spent the rest of his time trying to figure out Barton's history. It didn't help that each of the assessments came in sporadically. Medical came back clean; no blood or fingerprints had been found at a crime scene, the only drugs Barton was on was a suppressant. Phil paused at that, rereading the line. 

Not just any over the counter suppressant, either, but some black-market, knock-off drug that was probably injectable, the doctors theorized. It appeared to be in his system quite strongly which indicated that it wasn't going to metabolize out anytime soon. The concerning aspect of it all was –where would someone like Barton pick up drugs like that? Why was a rich kid from New York living homeless on the streets anyways? It didn't seem like his foster parents had kicked him out but Phil's preliminary searches for kids with similar names to Barton hadn't yielded the answers he was expecting. Social services were swamped; someone could have easily misspelled or misfiled some paperwork that explained how Barton went from vanished to living in a white picket fence home. But so far, nothing. 

Very odd. Throughout the day, other reports came in. The psych reports were… confusing to say the least and not at all surprising. Barton seemed to have a problem with authority figures, possibly some PTSD or unaddressed trauma that he refused to talk about. What was surprising was the form Clint had filled in which was nearly illegible and riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes. The questions had been redacted but the psychologist was having as much trouble reading the answers as Phil was. Maybe his writing and spelling were just terrible? But for an average C student who had attended an _unlisted_ private academy? It was… possible, Phil supposed, staring at the form confusedly. 

Phil shut the tab with an exhausted sigh. How was it even possible that Barton was the most complicated recruit ever? What about this didn't make sense? There had to be something off about the whole thing. Sure, Barton's PTSD was unusual –the whole thing with the knife in the taxi was evidence of that. But something about it just didn't sit right… 

"Agent Coulson?" 

Phil glanced up. "Captain Rogers," he greeted, resisting the urge to stand up and shake his hand. "How can I help you?" 

Steve smiled uncomfortably. "You mentioned, earlier, that you would be willing to help me with the others in my program?" 

"Of course!" 

"You're not too busy?" Steve asked, sitting down slowly. "I don't want to interrupt your work." 

"I could use a break," Phil answered honestly. "It's a welcome distraction, Captain." 

Steve smiled warmly. "Thank you, Agent Coulson." 

"Just give me their names and I'll see what records we have, alright?" 

Steve nodded in relief. Thirteen years ago Steve had been recruited for Project Rebirth along with four others. Most everything known about that data had been sealed away –prior to Steve's resurfacing, the most Phil had known about it was that the project went terribly wrong. Steve was the only Alpha they pulled in for the experiment and no one expected him to survive. It was an intense year for all the program members. Steve who received the full-benefits of the serum had been relocated to a secure army base in Washington. 

"Their names were Robert Banner, Emil Blonsky and Natalie Rushman. I know what happened to-to the other person." 

Phil jotted the names down. "I promise I'll look into them, Captain." 

"Thank you, Agent," Steve said, grateful. 

"How is the re-integration going?" Phil asked tactfully. 

Steve winced. "Honestly, it could be better. But Sam's been great and Fury's given me some work to do around here." 

Phil smiled. It was good to see Steve adjusting so well. Compared to most soldiers back fresh from a war, Steve was doing incredibly well. A lot better than he had been when they'd first found him. Following adulthood, Steve had joined the army. 

It all started a year ago, during a routine conflict between some rowdy Alphas holding several high-born Omegas hostage. Steve was called in to diffuse the situation because he was experienced in dealing with them and happened to be the closest aid. Naturally, nothing went according to plan. From the death of Yinsen to Tony Stark's escape, the terrorists were outmatched and disorganized by the time Steve showed up to recover the remaining six hostages. It was the first time the moniker Captain America had been given to him by the media. 

Six months ago, Steve and his unit were captured by Hydra and led into the heart of their encampment overseas. Hydra had accumulated several hundred prisoners, from locals to armed officials, originating from various countries. Some of the officials were armed patrol guards trying to preserve the peace before they were kidnapped for that very reason, while others were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. However Hydra had not known about Steve's experiences with the serum –in fact, very few did –and they underestimated him. Steve escaped and proceeded to free every last soul from the factory. The remaining Hydra agents surrendered. It was a huge victory and as a bonus, it turned out that several prisoners had been held hostage as a way for Hydra to use their families' power to keep two nations at war. It was unnecessary and cruel. Following their release, peace settled over the area and Steve Rogers returned to American soil to be crowed a national hero. 

In honor of his heroics, he was awarded a Purple Heart. Steve never talked about what happened at the Hydra encampment. His unit members spoke more candidly about the horrors they had heard whispered from fellow prisoners and guards' filthy promises. The few American survivors refused to speak of the trauma, and to the best of Phil's knowledge, both of them were involved in therapy. 

Getting Steve involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. had been as much Phil's idea as it had been Nick's. The army didn't want to risk losing or harming their hero, the soldiers' morale or the media's goodwill. They were easily swayed to send Steve over for a quick interview. Phil had three arguments and two counter arguments prepared to convince Steve that joining S.H.I.E.L.D. was in his best interests, but the captain had simply taken one look around the room and said, "You protect Omega rights." His tone was unsure, as though waiting for one of them to mock or deride him. 

"Yes," Fury had replied, an eyebrow arched in puzzlement. Very few people ever cared about the grassroots start of S.H.I.E.L.D. and even fewer knew about it. 

Steve had a multitude of questions, about their hiring practices and the nonexistent wage gap between Alphas and Omegas within S.H.I.E.L.D. It was a whirlwind of questions that didn't end until Steve had quietly stated that one of his comrades had died –he was an unmarried Omega, never named in the media or discussed. The army had treated him poorly but the Omega had passed all their tests, disguised his orientation until he couldn't any longer when he was held prisoner and had no access to his suppressants. 

"He was the only one who didn't make it out," Steve had explained, "and I won't let that happen again. I won't see Omegas being forgotten. If you guarantee me that and access to information regarding Project Rebirth, I'll gladly sign on." 

S.H.I.E.L.D. joyfully embraced Captain America, destroyer of Hydra, into their ranks. 


	3. Thistle and Weeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos. Sorry for the long delay, but please do enjoy. 
> 
> Clint realized Bucky was too sick, he brought him to the doctor's after stealing some money. Having accepted his fate as prisoner, Clint allows himself to be brought in. Unbeknownst to him, his antics were broadcast throughout the city and caught the eye of one Nick Fury who sent Phil to recruit Clint to SHIELD.

Clint 

Director Fury was terrifying, Clint decided as he tentatively sat down across from the man. His office was too spacious and too empty; Fury’s presence alone seemed to overshadow everything in his office. In the week since arriving at S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint kept mostly to the cafeteria and the room they’d provided him, sometimes drifting between the hot showers and Dr. Taylors’ office. They’d made him do a few other tests over the course of seven days; to determine his strengths and weaknesses they said, but Clint was pretty sure it was just so they could torture him with migraines and paperwork. Aside from his examiners, he hadn’t seen any real Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. crawling around. No sign of Coulson even, and he couldn’t decide whether that was a good or bad thing. 

“So Barton. You understand that you’ll be here, out of jail and free from the hands of interrogators, provided you serve with us for three years?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Agent Coulson made that very clear.”

Fury’s eyebrow twitched. “I’m only gonna say this once, Barton. You will address me as sir.”

Clint froze, fighting against the instinct to sit up straight and meet Fury’s gaze. “Or what?” he asked. 

“You really wanna find out.” The fact that it was a statement, not a question, was more concerning. Not to mention the utter irritation Clint could see Fury holding back. Barely. 

“Not really,” he said, casually. “Sir.”

“Hmph.” Fury appeared no more impressed than he had since Clint walked in. “I have some questions for you. And I expect you to be honest. If I so much as think you’ve been lying to me, I will send you down to our own interrogator. And let me make this clear, Barton, she doesn’t need to use violence to get answers. No good interrogator starts off whipping someone.”

Clint bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check. “Sir,” he replied tightly. Fury was obviously trying to bait him. 

“Your shooting skills are impressive. Where’d you learn?”

“My brother, first. When we were kids, used to skip rocks, that sort of thing. Then later on, my mentor at the circus. Went by the name Trickshot, back then.”

“Circus?” Fury asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.

Clint sighed. “Yes. Sir. The circus. I ran away to one when I was about eight. I stuck around for something like six years. Started doing gigs with Trickshot, that sort of thing.” 

To be technical, Trickshot only taught him archery. But really, firing a gun had never seemed all that different. Bucky had guided him on how to do it, spent most of his time teaching Clint how to assemble and disassemble the weapons than how to shoot them. Bucky didn’t need anyone breathing down his neck –neither the Hydra agents who thought he should have taken a more hands-on approach in instructing Clint or a lost kid trying to figure life out. And he definitely didn’t need S.H.I.E.L.D. to start digging around. What Bucky had needed was to get the hell out of there. Hydra wasn’t the forgiving type. And they never seemed to be happy with Bucky. 

“Mhm. And your hand-to-hand?”

“My foster father taught me,” Clint answered automatically. “Duquesne. He was an old military guy or something, I guess.” 

It was a common cover story he’d used when necessary at the urging of his superiors. Clint was never sure how no one had caught him out on the lie but it came as easily to his lips as breathing did. It gave him credibility to be able to answer quickly and it wasn’t like Duquesne wasn’t a real person. He was all too real. 

Fury made another noncommittal noise. “And your schooling? What was that like?”

“Y’know, the usual,” Clint answered. “I hated every minute of it and spent more time in detention than in class. Probly why Duquesne spent so much time teaching me how to fight.” 

From what little Clint could recall of his childhood that was actually spent in a classroom, it seemed fairly accurate. School had never been exciting or interesting. And he had certainly spent more time down at the principal’s office than he had in class. However Duquesne and learning how to fight had nothing to do with Duquesne trying to keep Clint out of trouble; Duquesne and his fists was the lesson. How to duck, dodge, block and fight back. 

“Favorite subject?” Fury asked.

“Didn’t really have one,” Clint said, shrugging. “Thought it was a waste of time honestly.”

Fury smirked. “What did they teach you, really? At this academy of yours.”

Clint shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t really show up to class. Sir.”

Fury’s eye narrowed. “I may not have attended a fancy academy in my day but I did attend class as a kid. And you know what they taught me?” 

Clint shook his head, confused as to what this had to do with anything. He’d never attended an actual academy let alone a school. Anyone who talked to him for more than five minutes would know that he wasn’t the most educated guy around. 

“They taught me how to cook and clean. Some basic math I might use when managing a household. They didn’t really care if I could read or write so much. Just how to look pretty, keep fit and attract all the big strong Alphas my little heart desired.” Fury huffed at that. “And you know how many of them I wanted? None. So I stopped going to class; it was a goddamned waste of my time. Waste of the teachers’ too.”

Clint gaped at him and hastily tried to recover his expression into a more neutral mask. 

“So don’t you sit there and tell me it was a waste of your time. Tell me why. What was it like?”

Clint thought back to Hydra and the lessons he went through there. As far as he knew schools were nothing like his education. If you could even call it an education. It was a point of pride that he was going along with whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. had dug up on him from paperwork that Hydra had apparently filed. He was stuck here for at least three years and he was not going to be known as the dumb guy. The illiterate one, the deaf one. He was as smart as anyone else, better skilled than half of them and he wasn’t going to let anyone use it against him. Even if he could barely spell and write –who even needed those skills? He could remember whatever they needed him to and he was more than capable of signing his name. It wasn’t like he _couldn’t_ read either, he was just a bit slow. He needed to take his time.

Fury knew. He had to. All the papers they’d shoved his way asking a million questions from his known allergies to giving him mathematic calculations to complete. His writing was shit, barely legible and he couldn’t understand all the questions they’d asked him. He tried. 

Clint squared his shoulders. “Look, you’re the guys that wanted me here. If I can’t meet your expectations, I’ll gladly get out of your hair.”

Fury laughed. “No Barton, it doesn’t work that way.”

“What do you want me to say then?” he growled.

“Just the truth.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I’m a slow reader,” he drawled. “And I don’t write very well. Didn’t spend a lot of time in class.”

“Barton. Do I look like I care about any of that? No. And you wanna know why? Because I don’t. I care that you can shoot straight, that you beat every agent’s scores without even breaking a sweat. We can teach you the rest –but that? We can’t teach that.”

Clint stared at Fury in shock. It was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone had said about Clint, ever. 

“You’ll be enrolled in the basic program, same as all the other recruits. You can try the combat classes too, I expect your instructors can find something for you to work on. Instead of guns, you’ll hit the books.”

“Sir,” Clint said, acknowledging Fury’s decision. He went to stand up.

“We’re not done yet,” Fury growled out. “Explain to me about your suppressants.”

Clint bristled. “I was living on the streets. It’s not like I could afford to buy the pills or risk getting caught stealing them once a month. So I took a shot instead. Longer lasting,” he explained. 

If only the truth was as pleasant as the lie. Within the first week of having been sold to Hydra, they strapped him down to a table and examined him thoroughly. They then proceeded to inject him with several different vaccines and one suppressant shot. It would be months later before he realized that was what they had done to him. At the time, there had just been a lot of panic and confused questions which went unanswered. The suppressant shot would remain in his system for roughly six months. By next month, that time frame would be up. 

“Riskier,” Fury pointed out, drumming his fingers against the table. “The doctors here have never seen anything like it before.”

“What, they want to observe me?” Clint joked.

“No. They do recommend that your next Heat be spent unassisted to make sure everything is working properly. They’ll administer proper suppressants once they’re sure the illegal drugs haven’t damaged you.”

“Sure,” Clint replied distrustfully. 

Fury gave a curt nod and handed over a sheaf of papers for Clint to fill out. “Give those to Coulson when you’re done and he’ll go over the details with you.” 

Following that, Clint retreated back to the privacy of his own room where he started to work through the paperwork. It was basic stuff really, some sort of hiring contract that outlined his wages and benefits. They didn’t really want to know anything from him, it seemed, just for him to sign his name that he understood whatever the forms said. An hour later, Clint gave up on trying to read through the legalese and just signed his name wherever they asked for it. When that was over, it seemed like the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. manual had materialized out of thin air but it was with the package of papers Fury had sent with him. Clint skimmed through it, trying not to groan at the endless stretch of words before him. There was a form in the back of the manual –Clint didn’t bother reading it, just initialed his name and moved onto the next one.

It felt like it was hours later when he headed to Coulson’s office. The man was always there and today was no exception as he sat at his desk, typing away on his computer. 

Coulson took the papers, skimming through them before nodding his approval. 

“Take this and listen to the whole thing,” Coulson said, handing over a flash drive. “It’ll make getting through the handbook a little easier until we can get you caught up on everything. You’ll find your schedule on here for where you’ll be reporting. The handbook will explain everything else you might find yourself needing to know.”

It was the start to working with S.H.I.E.L.D. or at least on working with Coulson. The man was efficient if nothing else. Clint returned to his room and spent the next hour and a half listening to the audio recording of someone reading the handbook out to him as he tried to read along. Concentrating on the speaker was harder than he’d like to admit –but he wasn’t willing to get caught unprepared either. Whoever the speaker was, he was definitely not blessed with an easy-to-listen-to voice. 

Everything at S.H.I.E.L.D. was so different from what he’d known before. It was a slow realization, one that crawled its way into his brain as he lay in bed after nearly a month of classes. Wrong answers weren’t punished here. Not even simple humiliation in front of his peers. Of the few memories he carried from school, he could remember teachers calling him out in front of the class when he slurred his words together. He hated them with a passion, but he learned to recognize when his speech was slipping and by the time he was working with Hydra, it was an ingrained habit. Bucky and Duquesne weren’t the only ones who taught him, between the two of them they only had so much knowledge and experience. He was often handed off to others and it wasn’t unusual that if he gave the wrong answer, someone would clout him upside the head or slap a ruler across his knuckles. 

Pain was a good motivation. Even just the anticipation of it was enough to inspire students to peak performance. But S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t do that. Clint didn’t actually know what they did to students who couldn’t keep up with their expectations. And whatever their expectations were, Clint surely wasn’t meeting them. He was barely sitting at a sixty percent average. At Hydra, the answer to what they did when their expectations weren’t met had haunted him for too long. When his earliest classmate had failed to meet Duquesne’s expectations, a Hydra agent shot the kid in the back and tossed the body into a dumpster. Hydra didn’t put up with incompetence. Every night, Clint would spend hours studying so he had all the answers but when the teachers called on him, he started giving the wrong answers. They just corrected him and went on with the lecture, as though he had done nothing wrong. It didn’t make sense.

In the practice ring, after he deliberately moved too slow and took a few blows, the instructor just waved him off and had him sit down until he was feeling better. The first few tests he filled out correctly but when no one did anything, he started filling them out incorrectly. Just to see what would happen. Sometimes he would find himself wishing Bucky were here with him. It was impossible to figure this place out on his own. Aside from the moments where Bucky was the Winter Soldier, Bucky had never punished Clint either. But Bucky was his friend at best and ally at worst, even in those days. The kids who came out of the programming classes stuck together. Here, in S.H.I.E.L.D. he didn’t have any allies. There was no reason for these people to go out of their way. 

It was only a week after he’d filled out his tests incorrectly when he got an email ordering him to Coulson’s office. Finally, he thought, they were going to punish him. He needed to know what they would do to him. Classes had become torturous –he wasn’t sure what they were expecting from him. From the beginning he hadn’t been performing all that well. The tests they administered, he always ran out of time so he scrawled down whatever came to mind. He rarely made it through half the test before the classroom was emptying at a terrifying pace. 

Clint reported on time, scanning Coulson’s office for whatever device the agent was planning to use. But it was empty, there wasn’t a mysterious cane or whip that had suddenly appeared. There weren’t even handcuffs. At least not ones that were visible. 

“Sit down,” Coulson greeted, without turning to face him. “Do you drink coffee or tea?” 

Clint sat down stiffly, watching Coulson warily. So it was starting like this? “Coffee,” he said firmly. 

Omegas weren’t allowed coffee –it was a rule and everyone knew it. Coffee messed with their systems, turned them into over emotional bitches. No one at Hydra had been allowed coffee over fears of the Omegas getting their grubby hands on the stuff and becoming unstable.

Coulson just nodded though. “Black? Or do you take cream or sugar?”

“Black,” Clint answered unfailingly. If he was going to be turned into an emotionally unstable mess, he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to remember what coffee tasted like. Coulson could never take that away from him. And neither could anyone else. 

But for all the things Clint had expected of coffee, the reality kind of fell short. Coulson sat down across from him, his own cup of coffee in hand –he’d added a spoonful of sugar and two spoonfuls of creamer. 

“I need you to fill these out for me,” he said, sliding over a few sheets of paper. 

Distracted by the hot cup of coffee in his hand, the thrum of anxiety from not knowing what to expect, it wasn’t until Clint had finished filling out the papers that he realized what Coulson had made him do. 

“This isn’t fair to the other students,” Clint ground out, staring at the test pages in front of him.

“Your upbringing wasn’t fair on you,” Coulson replied bluntly. “I checked with your instructors and they assured me that they hadn’t been going over the test answers in class considering the class has stayed average.”

Clint scoffed. “You mean I’m the only one failing, don’t you? No need to spare my feelings.”

Coulson frowned. “I’m not doing this for your feelings, Barton. I’m doing this for your own benefit and that of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. You have the potential to be a great asset to us –however long you decide to stay on. You haven’t been failing intentionally for the most part,” he said, directing his furrowed expression to Clint. “Except for these few tests which you completed on time but seemed to choose the most obviously wrong answer. I want to know why.”

Clint shifted his seat warily. “Does it matter? I fucked up.”

Coulson sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair. “If you’re going to lie, you have to do better than that Barton.”

“I didn’t study,” Clint said resolutely. 

“Why?” Coulson asked patiently. He didn’t even sound annoyed. It was aggravating Clint.

“It shouldn’t matter, should it?” he deflected, desperately.

“You’re nearly at the halfway point, Barton,” Coulson explained patiently. “You’ve been doing well, attending every course diligently. No one’s seen you getting into any kind of trouble. You deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

“I’ve been answering questions wrong,” Clint argued. Why didn’t they understand it? “And I failed that test.”

“We all have bad days.”

Clint ground his teeth together. “Not every bad day deserves to be excused.”

Coulson blinked, looking genuinely surprised. “What do you think should happen then?”

Clint shrugged. “Something else.”

“I’m not going to punish you, and S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t either. We are an organization born from picking and choosing fights –this one isn’t a big deal. We want you to learn, to remember the answers first and not a hundred moments of pain as you tried to get the answer right. It’s just a bit of paperwork, Barton.”

Coulson let him go after that without pressing him for an answer about why he had intentionally failed those last couple of tests. Fitting in with his classes suddenly wasn’t so hard anymore though. He started performing better but he still needed the extra time the teachers provided him privately. His lessons with the other recruits went more smoothly. In fact, it was all going so smoothly he forgot one important detail of his life. 

It had been years since he last went through a proper heat. His first one should have been last month, since the suppressants had worn off by then but he never thought about it. He was too preoccupied with the stress of not understanding S.H.I.E.L.D. that he didn’t even realize it until he woke up in agonizing pain. It felt like his insides were being ripped open with glass shards. For the most part, Clint had completely forgotten what it was like to have a heat. He’d spent the last however many years relishing in the fact that he didn’t have to endure them any longer. The humiliation and shame that crawled through him was like an old friend. Familiar and unwanted. (Clint couldn’t think of a single old friend he had, that he would want to ever see again). 

The urges and desires, while not unfamiliar, were infinitely worse than what Clint had ever experienced before. Heats weren’t meant to be torture –they could be, if the Omega experiencing it were to be restrained and denied any pleasure. But during his adolescence, Clint had been more than capable of taking care of himself. Back at Carson’s there were a few Omegas and Alphas who claimed it wasn’t possible for Omegas to survive their heats alone. This was the first time Clint ever felt like they might have been right. Not for the first time, he was thankful for having a door with a lock and being located in a small dorm room that was smack dab in between the Omega quarters and the Alpha quarters. All students were apparently located in this section, quarantined off from sensitive information. Someone must have called Dr. Taylors and an Omega specialist because somewhere between one blackout and the next, Clint had been provided water and food. The sheets had been cleaned, and he was more comfortable.

Clint was distantly aware that he was burning hot, possibly feverish, but all he wanted –all he _needed_ was a good, strong Alpha to take care of him. He could sense the medical staff around him, the way they hovered but never did anything useful. Lucidity came infrequently, in short bursts, just enough to let him discern Dr. Taylors' face and the safe, patient scent of Betas that permeated his room. He was never lucid long for long enough to feel wary or distrustful. The toys they had given him provided some relief, enough to help the doctors break his fever, and get some liquids into him. 

He owed a lot to Dr. Taylors, he realized when he woke up. He was well-enough that he cleaned up and headed to his couple of classes before going down to see Dr. Taylors. She had left a note, an email and a voice message on his room phone for him. Apparently it was pretty urgent he went down to see her. So after his classes were over, he went down to see her. She had him sit down on the exam table and took a sample of his blood before heading over to run her tests. Something about determining findings –apparently she’d been observing his symptoms during the whole thing.

“And this, Mr. Barton, is _why_ we don’t use street suppressants,” Dr. Taylors chided gently, as she looked over his blood-work. 

“Yeah,” Clint answered, rubbing at his forehead. 

“Still feeling disoriented?” she asked, glancing at him.

“Woozy,” Clint agreed. “Was it really just the weekend?” he asked, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“We got to you within three hours of your heat starting. You went from stage one to three and skipped the entire pre-phase,” she informed him.

Stage one happened about a day or two before the heat hit, sending Omegas into a burst of ‘spring cleaning’ as many called it. Cleaning out their houses, washing their bed sheets, hoarding food and water and keeping it close to the bedroom. Most Omegas could recognize the feeling; most of them had that phase. Clint on the other hand, either simply didn’t experience that stage or he simply hadn’t experienced enough to recognize it yet. Before Hydra, he had endured a few heats and he was pretty sure he’d never done any of that stuff. Stage two was more complex and varied between Omegas but usually it was marked by a significant increase in horniness before the heat hit –usually in a number of hours. Stage three was of course the heat itself, the body preparing to be mated and keeping everything slick and wet for, on average, two days to help increase the chances of pregnancy. Clint hadn’t even known that there was a pre-phase. 

It didn’t feel like two days had passed. It felt infinitely longer, but… “So what’s the prognosis, doc?” he asked, hopping to his feet.

“You might want to sit down for this one,” Dr. Taylors said gently, rolling her computer chair away from the monitor. 

Feeling uneasy, Clint sat back down on the examination table. 

“Clint. Because of the unusual circumstances surrounding the drugs you were given and their long lasting effect for a number of years… First of all, your heat cycle is a tangled mess. It’s going to take you a few years before it regulates back to normal. And… secondly, you… I don’t think you’ll be able to have children. Certainly not while your cycle is so out of control. I can do a more in-depth exam so we can know for sure –”

“No, really,” Clint interrupted. “It’s fine. I don’t want kids. And I’m not going to change my mind in five years or even twenty. I do not want kids.” He got to his feet. “I’ll do what I can to keep you informed doc, but what’s going to happen with missions?”

“We’ll send suppressants with you, just in case,” Dr. Taylors said. “ _Just in case_ , Clint. You can only use them if it will jeopardize the mission or your safety. Continued use of even our safe suppressants? It will worsen the condition of your heats.”

Clint paused. The first part of that hadn’t sounded so bad. “What do you mean?”

“The intensity you feel them. You’re suppressing biology; you can’t stop it entirely, unfortunately. I know this lifestyle can be harder on Omegas. Especially given their heats, but Clint, if you continue using suppressants, they could kill you. Even if you used them for every month, for the rest of your life, your body will either shut down or build up a slow immunity and your heat will follow. And rip you apart. I doubt even an Alpha could meet your body’s needs, after so long without.” 

Clint winced. “Understood, doc.”

Dr. Taylors nodded. “I have to put this in your file, you know that. Your handler and Director Fury will be the only ones who have access to this information. I’m your physician and if it happens while you’re on an op, well, it’ll be for your judgment on what you tell the enemy or doctors. If the worst should happen.”

“Good to know, Dr. Taylors. Thanks for the, ah, help,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the room.

Dr. Taylors laughed. “I’m your doctor Clint. Normally I wouldn’t intervene in this scenario and I hope I won’t always have to, but it’s just to…”

“Keep me alive,” Clint finished for her, with a grin. “I wasn’t trying to hit on you, doc. Just. Thanks.”

It wasn’t every day he met a doctor quite like Dr. Taylors. He was still haunted by the memories of being strapped down and forced to accept the drugs Hydra had decided to inject him with. But the world would be better off without having to worry about a Barton offspring on his end. It was one less thing to worry about, in some far-off fantasy where he met some Alpha or Beta who expected children just because Clint was an Omega. But now, that decision was beyond him. He couldn’t have children and it was nobody’s business but his own to know that there might be a chance. 

But there was something he needed to do. He needed to get to Bucky. If the suppressants had hit him this hard? Clint didn’t want to think about how bad Bucky was during his first heat alone. At night, when Clint hadn’t been able to sleep, he thought about all the ways to get out of S.H.I.E.L.D. unnoticed. Just in case he ever had to bail, in case it was better to be free for however long he could manage than to be trapped in this glass prison. And the answer, after a week of searching, became obvious. The vents. 

Phil 

Phil sat down, watching Barton. He didn’t look repentant in the least. “You were AWOL for two days, Barton.”

Barton shrugged, leaning back in his chair, his handcuffs jangling noisily. “Yup,” he answered flippantly. 

“You’re going to throw all the comforts of S.H.I.E.L.D. away?” Phil questioned. “For a night out?” He slid the photographs over. 

It was the only visual evidence they had managed to find of the kid while he was gone –three candid frames taken inside a stripper’s club. Barton sitting alone at the table closest to the stage, a drink in hand. Curiously, he wasn’t smiling in any shot but his eyes were definitely on the performers.

Barton’s lips twitched in amusement. “Yeah. It was a great time out too. You guys are so stuffy and boring. I was going to come back on Sunday.”

Phil frowned. “So you ran off for no reason?”

“To have some fun, Christ, Coulson _do_ you even remember how to have any?”

Phil sighed heavily. “If you’re so eager to be reunited with the interrogators, just say the word and we’ll send you to ours. At least they won’t kill you.”

Barton’s grin slipped a little, the dark bruises littering his face standing out staunchly. “I’ll remember that the next time I start feeling antsy.”

“Good. If you ever do this again, we’ll leave you here to _rot_ ,” Phil growled, slamming the receiver down. 

On the other side of the glass, Barton seemed to shrink down. He looked young, but unafraid. Phil was torn between admiring his courage and wanting to strangle him. He had too much talent to be wasted doing this. And the last thing he wanted to see was Barton getting away from S.H.I.E.L.D. and turning criminal. Criminal ex-employees of S.H.I.E.L.D. were personally hunted down by the agency. 

Phil briefly considered letting Clint stew in prison longer but Fury needed Phil back at the office. And considering Barton had been in custody for nearly twenty hours, he’d definitely been here long enough. Phil went up the chain of command, and in under an hour they had released Barton back into his custody. The young man was more subdued than usual as he got into the company car, sinking down in the passenger seat and staring out the window. 

Back at S.H.I.E.L.D. Barton’s lethargic attitude seemed to continue. He did well on his tests, went for his lessons and hid out in his room. The few tentative friendships he seemed to have been forming frayed and snapped. Phil wanted to say it was a good thing, a sign of Barton reforming, but everything about his mannerisms screamed of a slow burning grief or depression. Before Phil had any time to investigate, he was whisked off on a mission to Peru. Two niggling thoughts remained with him through the mission though and the first was how _had_ Barton escaped? Secondly, what was going on in his head? 

What was supposed to be a simple mission of retrieving AIM weapons turned into a ten month undercover operation. Phil had to coordinate with Jasper Sitwell and Fury even ended up sending Captain America along. Steve wasn’t the best undercover operative they had, not by a long shot, but he was a great strategist. It was exhausting work and it felt like it would never end. It wasn’t normal for most S.H.I.E.L.D. missions to run quite so long, it was only rare that they happened. They weren’t entirely unheard of.

When Phil returned from his mission, the victorious co-leader of the operation, he gratefully accepted the promotion and passed his teaching responsibilities down to Sitwell. Maria Hill had been busy with her own missions while they were gone, and they must have been important ones, because by the time Phil was back in New York, Maria was the new Assistant Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. The five of them –Steve, Nick, Maria and Jasper all went out that night for drinks, pizza and a catch up session.

Ten months was a long time to be away, far too long really, Phil was beginning to realize. “What do you mean you’re engaged to Tony Stark?” Phil asked, staring at Steve as though the other man had grown a second head. “And how did you not mention this two months ago?”

“I didn’t know then,” Steve said, genuinely apologetic as he swirled the alcohol in his glass. “It’s not like I was the one who proposed –or him, for that matter.”

Phil rubbed at his face and turned to Nick. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“It was out of my hands, Cheese,” he replied tiredly. “Stane started pushing, went straight for the Omega rights angle about how this publicity will be great for Tony’s image.” Tony’s mostly non-existent image, that was. Stane kept him locked up tight. It never did stop Stark from escaping and his face inevitably wound up splashed over the tabloids as he sucked face with his person of the week. It never did seem to matter what Stane did, he never kept Tony locked up for long. 

“You _have_ met him before though, right?” Phil asked, feeling the beginning of a migraine crawl up his spine to nestle into the back of his head. 

“Stark?” Steve asked, glancing at Phil. “Few times, yeah.” He grimaced then, downing the rest of his drink. “If he gets married, he gets power over his company. He just needs to get through the next few months and everything will be fine.”

“You’ll murder each other,” Phil protested.

Steve sighed. “I know. I don’t have a way out of this. I’ve already taken Tony’s biggest accomplishment from him –the escape in Afghanistan. Everyone thinks that was me. It’s not what I want, Phil. But I owe him a chance at freedom. And it’s not like Stane will be monitoring the marriage bed…” Steve turned away, a flash of disgust on his face. “Stark could be worse. And by agreeing this, he gets power to change the world… and I can stop going to those –those Omega cotillions.”

It wasn’t a problem Phil was familiar with, considering his parents had never been too concerned about proper Alphas and Omegas. But Steve was a national hero and no doubt he was harassed daily by the military officials and media. Also, he wasn’t the best at saying no and rarely had an excuse. He’d been taking it easy with work. Omega cotillions were where presentable, proper Omegas were introduced to society for the explicit purpose of either being sold off or married off to rich older men. 

“That’s noble of you,” Maria commented. “I give you ten minutes of meeting Stark personally before that changes.”

“We had five minutes,” Steve protested.

“Another five to go then,” Jasper laughed, taking a drink.

“Unless you’re standing at the altar, there’s time to change your mind,” Phil added. “Keep that in mind.” _Before you go sacrificing your happiness out of duty,_ Phil added to himself. 

The sharp beep of a cell phone cut off their conversation. Maria sighed and pulled her phone out. 

“I bet it’s Barton,” Jasper whispered. 

“What does Barton have to do with this?” Phil asked, curious. 

Maria swore under her breath and got up. “Work calls gentlemen. See you tomorrow.” She put the phone back to her ear as she walked out of the pub, arguing with the person on the other end of the call.

Nick chuckled. “He’s an asset now. Streamlined him straight out of training. He’s been making a nuisance of himself for the last month.”

“Rumor says he’s gone through three handlers already,” Jasper supplied. 

“How?” Phil asked, incredulous. 

Three handlers in one month? That was probably a handler a week or per mission. It wasn’t uncommon for new assets to go through handler changes but they usually lasted a couple of months before they requested for a change. As far as Phil knew, the assets usually stuck out the shoddy handlers in order to prove that they had tried to make it work. It didn’t sound like Barton was putting any effort in at all.

“He’s not the one filing the paperwork,” Nick answered, standing up. “And hell if I know. Good to have you back, Cheese. Sitwell. I’ll expect a full debriefing tomorrow.” And with that, Nick left as well.

It was rare for Nick to stay and have a drink or two with them these days. He was a busy man. Between his job and his teenaged daughter, his hands were plenty full but he made time every now and then to stay and catch up on the gossip. Of course, he usually knew the gossip firsthand or because he started it. But his parting words were a surprise –that it was the handlers requesting to not work with Barton. Handlers couldn’t afford to be that picky, Phil knew. 

His ten month mission he had been working as a glorified handler for too many people. It was a juggling act trying to balance their needs and get them to give him the best results by paying attention to their special talents. Of course, not all of them were entirely useful or beneficial to the mission. Sure someone who could break into any safe was useful –but not when they needed her undercover and she tripped over her words. Phil’s closest experience to working as a handler could be summed up in one word: accidental. He didn’t have the time or the energy to get to know every asset individually but he tried. He tried to make sure to listen to their skills and put them where they wanted to be put. 

“Man, we’ve missed out on so much,” Jasper sighed. “It’ll take me months to catch up on all this gossip.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve already heard it all,” Phil joked. “I don’t understand how you can do it for fun.”

“What better way to get to know a person than judging them by way of others’ experiences of them? Of course not everyone is reliable but if they all say the same thing, then the story is pretty simple. And you should hear what they had to say about this Barton.”

Phil arched a brow. “And what do they say?”

“That he’s a stubborn little shit who won’t listen to his superiors, that he regularly puts his teammates lives in danger with his ridiculous stunts. And –get this –he uses a bow and arrow in _field_.”

“He’s better at archery than shooting a gun,” Phil found himself saying. “I can’t say much for the rest of it.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.”

Phil nodded. “I thought so too at first. You should check the scores on the ranges when you have a minute, if you want to see the proof yourself.” He got to his feet. “I’d better get started on those reports early. See you tomorrow.”

Jasper echoed the sentiment and in a few moments, Phil was leaving the S.H.I.E.L.D. pub and heading home for the first time in too long. S.H.I.E.L.D. ran a casual payment plan that ensured his rent and bills were always paid if he was unavailable to do so. It was a relief to be home, to undress and climb into a bed that was distinctly his own. (He paid extra when he was out of the country to make sure his apartment was maintained in his absence). 

The next two weeks passed by in a blur. The only things that stood out were the debriefing and reports he gave Fury followed by the fact that he sat down and started looking into that information for Steve. He was relieved to find a few more results and started to investigate into them. He didn’t want to give out any false hope. Emil Blonsky was dead. Natalie Rushman was unknown. Robert Banner was going by the name Bruce Banner according to the FBI’s most wanted list that had been filed three and a half months ago. Coincidentally, three and a half months ago was when Emil Blonsky died. The details weren’t available to the public but with a little searching, Phil looked into the specifics. He was about to really start digging into the suspicious incident when he could hear people shouting. It was never a good sign and this didn’t sound like someone was celebrating. Phil grabbed his gun and stepped out into the hall, noticing that others nearby had done the same. At the end of the hallway came Barton and Agent Holtz. Phil relaxed, shoving his gun back into his holster. Barton was had filled out since the last time Phil had seen him –he didn’t look like a kid eking out an existence on the streets, starving anymore. He was a young man now. The scowl on his face was entirely teenaged petulance as he kept pace with Agent Holtz. They were both still wearing field gear and judging by Agent Holtz’s echoing voice, headed to Fury’s office. 

“You left position!” Holtz barked.

“I wouldn’t have been able to make the shot if I’d stayed,” Barton snapped back.

“You’re not even supposed to be taking shots!”

“Then why am I even going on these missions?” Barton demanded, checking out the nearest exits. “Fernandez would’ve been dead except for me! I told you she needed back up –and it isn’t my fault that Smith can barely tell the scope from the trigger, he’s too slow.”

“It’s not your fucking call Barton!” Holtz snarled, slamming his hand against the elevator button. They were definitely headed to see Fury, then. 

Barton’s expression shuttered, the scowl vanishing from it to be replaced with something more akin to resignation. “Whatever,” he muttered. “It’s not like I saved her life or anything. Oh, wait. _I did_ .”

The elevator pinged, doors sliding open. “You better curb that attitude Barton before you get tossed back in the cesspool you came from,” Holtz growled, stepping into the elevator.

If Barton had a response, which he no doubt did, the closing of the elevator doors cut it off. Jasper whistled appreciatively. Phil startled and turned to see his friend standing next to him, an armful of papers in hand.

“Explosive,” Jasper said. “I knew the kid was having trouble but that was a little over the top. The way Fernandez says it –”

“I don’t need to know,” Phil said, cutting him off efficiently. “Fury will sort it out.”

“The kid’s good, Phil. He’s making a name for himself but none of the good handlers are willing to give him a chance.”

“He’ll be fine,” Phil said confidently. “Fury won’t let someone with his talent go.”

Barton was an asset. One who was particularly gifted, at that. Whatever his quirks and attitude problems, Fury wouldn’t let someone with his skill-set out of sight. They had one asset a few years back who wouldn’t get on a plane unless he had been provided a ridiculous amount of beer. And every mission he went out on, S.H.I.E.L.D. made sure he had his requisite amount of alcohol. In the end, they found out that it was because he was afraid of flying –they handed him a motorcycle and sent out emails to him. If he was needed overseas, he could catch a boat over. It would be the same with Barton; Fury would find a way to have Barton’s back for as long as Barton stayed with S.H.I.E.L.D. And hopefully, it would be longer than the two remaining years.

Phil returned to his office, about to start searching for more records of this Bruce Banner when his phone rang. “Coulson speaking.”

“Get up here now,” Fury growled, hanging up. 

Phil winced and got to his feet, hurrying to Fury’s office. That tone never meant things were going well. Not for whoever was in the office or whoever was being called to join. At least being called into an appointment he was unaware of, meant that nothing in his own ops had been called into question. There was an uncanny feeling in his gut that this meeting would have more to do with Barton and Holtz. Given Holtz’s earlier show, there was no way that their meeting with Fury would have ended so quickly. Phil caught the elevator up to Fury’s office, knocking on the door politely. Fury’s administration assistant flashed him a relieved smile and ushered him inside, opening Fury’s door to send Phil through. As expected, Barton and Holtz were both still inside. Holtz was on his feet in the middle of the room, arms waving exaggeratedly as he gestured at Barton furiously. Barton was slouched in the armchair, sitting across from Fury, his scowl deepening with every word Holtz spat. Fury was seated, his one good eye trained on Holtz. The minute creases on his forehead and the tight lines around his mouth were the only overt sign of Fury’s growing frustration.

“Coulson,” he barked, cutting off Holtz’s rant. 

“Yes sir?”

Barton sat up, turning to look over at Phil. He rolled his eyes and slouched back down, his attention on Fury. “Really, him?” he muttered under his breath.

“Barton,” Fury snapped, “if I hear another word out of your mouth that isn’t “yes sir” I will have you down in medical scrubbing blood from the O.R tables and cleaning those bathrooms with a toothbrush.”

Barton squared his shoulders. “Yes. Sir,” he bit out.

“You see this!?” Holtz demanded. “This kid thinks he don’t owe a thing to us! He should be down with the interrogators till he learns some respect!”

“Holtz, if I hear another word out of your mouth I will send _you_ to the interrogators,” Fury growled.

Holtz’s eyes widened and he dropped into standing at attention. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he seemed to struggle with his temper. Phil glanced between everyone, a growing sense of dread in his gut.

“Coulson,” Fury said after a moment, his posture relaxing marginally. “How do you feel about a promotion? You did great on that Peru op.”

Phil fought to keep his expression a calm mask. This was unusual. “Sounds nice, sir.”

“Good. Agent Coulson, welcome to level seven. Meet your new asset, Clint Barton.” Barton’s sour expression suddenly made a lot more sense. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://kinthinia.tumblr.com I post updates there on why I haven't updated in so long. Also I tag my updates as Kinthinia writes if you want to check in on that tag to find out how my writing is going. 
> 
> Please keep an eye on my tags, I promise you there is no Steve/Tony in this fic beyond political measures. I don't want to ruin anyone's hopes or raise anyone's expectations in regards to that. 
> 
> Please contact me if you have any interest in beta-ing this.


	4. The Bird and the Worm

Working with Coulson wasn’t the worst thing possible. Clint had moved through into the probationary period within a year. Because he worked with Coulson, he was treated as a level three equivalent agent even though everyone knew he wasn’t. Coulson got the full documentation regarding their targets but Clint got an abridged and highly redacted edition. Sometimes, Clint wasn’t even allowed to go with Coulson on missions. He’d tried to sneak a copy once but Coulson had intercepted him first. 

“This is all you’re able to see,” he’d said amusedly. 

The entire form had been redacted except for the part with Coulson’s name and the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. 

During Coulson’s “super-secret” missions, they kept Clint off duty for the most part. Unless Coulson was going to be gone for more than a month, then Coulson was the one who made plans to see who would be handling Clint in his absence. Oddly, it wasn’t as bad as Clint had been expecting things to be. In the beginning it was boring, milk run after milk run but then Coulson started letting him in on the exciting parts. Where he actually got to kill the bad guys. Drug dealers, slavers, murderers and even war criminals. Anyone on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hit list. There were some differences in working with S.H.I.E.L.D at least. For one, Clint knew they were the bad guys and he didn't have to take casualties. In fact, Coulson seemed impressed whenever Clint went out of his way to avoid casualties. Really it just went to prove how terrible the run of the mill sniper was. A fact that Coulson seemed to be accepting, considering he had recently allowed Clint to take his bow and arrows with him whenever they could afford to do so. 

Apparently, in the year and a half that had passed, Clint had started to make a bit of a name for himself. Within S.H.I.E.L.D. they had taken to calling him Hawkeye because he didn't miss a shot and he could see everything when he was focused on it. Coulson had tried to put a stop to it, but there wasn't really much purpose to it when Clint used it every chance he could. It was a battle Coulson would not be wining and the other man seemed to have gracefully accepted defeat, merely shaking his head whenever he heard someone refer to Clint as Hawkeye. There was a lot more oomph to a name like Hawkeye. Best of all, it was unrelated to Hydra; unrelated to his dirty and bloodied past. _Hawkeye_ was the name of someone with a future, someone who had something to head towards. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. was better than living on the streets, better than being a slave to Hydra, but he wasn't sure if there was anything out there better than S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint kind of hoped there was. 

"I have to go," Coulson said, dropping a folder down on his desk. "It's a long mission, unfortunately. I have some investigating to do." 

"What am I cleared to know?" Clint drawled, stretched out across Coulson's couch. 

"Other than that I'm going to be out for some long mission? Nothing." Coulson smiled, that smug all-knowing smile. He had to know it drove Clint up the wall when he smiled like that. 

"Whose in charge of me while you're gone?" 

Coulson paused at that, grimacing distastefully. "Holtz." He held up a hand and Clint quieted his protest before he'd really even started it. (Had he changed so much so quickly? Clint quickly scowled to make up for his silence). "It's his first try back. He's passed through the training sessions and says he's ready to try working with you. I've left him detailed notes. If he proves troublesome, just go to Agents Sitwell or Hill -they've got my back-up requests." 

"No. Absolutely not going to happen Coulson," Clint growled. "I am not working with him! He nearly got an agent killed over his damn pride." 

"Barton," Coulson sighed. "These orders come from my superiors. There's nothing I can do." 

_Which was why Hill and Sitwell were his back-up. Clever._ "What're my orders?" he asked, resigned. A year ago and he would have been fighting tooth and nail about this. But he knew Coulson would have tried everything he could to find someone more suitable than fucking Holtz. It was only if there was no one that Clint was stuck with the man. 

Coulson actually winced. "I don't have them, Agent Barton. You'll have to go see your acting handler. I'm leaving in ten minutes." 

Clint sat up. "Seriously?" 

Coulson lifted his shoulders, as close to a shrug as the man would ever get. He was sorting through his desk for some reason. As though he would need paperwork wherever he ended up. Actually, knowing Coulson, he would end up needing a lot of paperwork. He always did. "It's very urgent." 

And no matter how much Clint pushed and whined, Coulson said nothing on the subject other than to threaten locking Clint up in his office. Clint grumbled all the way out of Coulson's office and all the way straight to his new acting superior, Agent Holtz's office. He would have stalked Coulson around to the plane, but he knew that with a mission as urgent as this one was, that so much as seeing the plane or cargo was a breach of his terms as a level three probationary agent. And anyways, Coulson would have just gotten angry. Might as well go and see someone he didn't like. 

Holtz looked up. He looked the same as he had last year. Clean shaven, smug and dressed in crisp slacks and a white button-down shirt. "Barton," he said, resignation heavy in his tone. 

"Holtz," Clint greeted, equally unimpressed. "Do I have a mission?" 

"Fifteen hundred we're flying out to France. We have to keep an eye on the Omega Rights professor Sarah Miller." 

"Parameters?" 

"Ensure her safety. Lopez and Woo will be her shadows; you're the one scoping out potential sniper nests. Using any means necessary, but try and not get caught by the media or any other political figures. The last thing we need to do is create a scene." 

Clint hid his grimace with great difficulty. As though he didn't know. It was part of basic training to be a sniper; avoid creating a scene when possible. That way, he would have more time to escape before the body was found. Granted, at times, a scene could be useful too. So long as he was prepared to blend into the crowds and disappear, provided he had enough time for it to happen. "Where are the blueprints?" he asked. 

Holtz slid the papers over wordlessly. Clint scanned the page, looking for the labels to work out where Professor Miller would be speaking. He frowned. "How high risk of a target is she?" 

Holtz spared him a condescending look. "High enough that she gets S.H.I.E.L.D. bodyguards. A lot of rival organizations have been sending her threats and some of the more old fashioned countries don't like what she's got to say." 

Clint nodded absently. Whoever had arranged for this lecture to take place was pretty clever. Professor Miller would be speaking in an enclosed space with a limited number of people. Two S.H.I.E.L.D. guards would be stationed at each entrance, and another one would stand watch over the balcony that led into the room. Finally, there would be Clint who was stationed outside the building to watch for any sign of snipers. What kind of lectures was this woman giving that made her such a high priority target? Clint guessed whatever the content was, must be fairly accurate if there were people upset enough to be trying to kill her. 

“Barton,” Holtz said after Clint had started digging through his papers. “This is your packet. Get out of my office and go make yourself useful. Also make sure to bring your bow; we want them to know we’re protecting her.”

He grabbed his go-bag, always packed and ready to go from his S.H.I.E.L.D. quarters and boarded the plane due to take off in a few hours before settling in to read up on the mission. Usually he and Coulson would go over this together. Then again, the packet was the first thing Coulson handed over before giving Clint the choice of whether or not he wanted to participate in the mission in the first place. 

Professor Sarah Miller, twenty-eight years old, a graduate of Stanford specializing in Gender Dynamics and Biology. Her most known work was the novel titled “The truth about Omegas: We don’t need Alphas.” Which definitely sounded controversial. Clint skimmed through the articles attached which seemed to indicate that she had solid science in her reasoning and was working on a method that could safely alter how Omegas’ experienced their heats, thereby forcing the Alphas into extinction. Of course Alpha extremist groups had started popping up, firing back with hate propaganda about how they were the only orientation that would survive the next gene transformation as they were supreme. Interestingly enough, nowhere in Sarah Miller’s book did she discuss forcing the Alphas into extinction. In fact, she discussed being able to use the leaps in her understanding of Omegas to understand Alphas and force their biology to curb down by fifty perfect during heat week. The supremacy groups had started firing back with death threats, but Omegas and Beta scientists had started flooding to attend these lectures. 

Clint spent his preparation time deciding on where the likeliest of snipers might set up and in turn mentally mapped out the routes he would be taking to find them. He was so engrossed in his work that he wasn’t even aware of Holtz and his team boarding the quinjet until they were taking off from the airstrip. He suited up while the others shared their plans. When he had first started working with Coulson, the worst part was definitely the man’s planning meetings. Every plan had a back-up plan. He didn’t go over all of them, but he made sure there was one back-up plan that every agent had memorized. Clint hadn’t cared about the plans, he just wanted to jump into the mission and get it over with. 

But he learned his lesson quickly. During one of Coulson’s secret missions, Clint had been assigned to a handler by the name of Malone. It was a brutal mission. They had flown into Somalia expecting to be negotiating with a rebel Beta colony that were attempting to strong-arm the government into denying Omegas and Alphas voting rights, citing the other two orientations were too uncontrollable. Clint would later learn that Malone was apparently notorious for failing to research his assignments but no one had reported him because he liked to bully around the Omegas under his charge. The first words out of Malone’s mouth left the man in handcuffs and Clint watching dumbfounded as they hauled Malone to the dungeons. As an associate, they didn’t give Clint the chance to say a word before they shoved a rag into his mouth and threw him into the cell next to Malone. Thankfully Agent May happened to be in the area and within seventy-two hours, she smoothed relations over between the government and the rebel colony before rescuing Clint and Malone. All things considered, it hadn’t been that bad. He was left alone in his cell, bound and gagged.

“A lesson to remember boys,” she had said, thoroughly unimpressed as she marched back onto the quinjet. 

Clint was pretty sure that might have been the first time he’d ever fallen in love with someone. But it ended rather abruptly when he heard word of Agent May’s marriage. Still, Clint was willing to bet there were very few agents cooler than Agent May. Coulson didn’t even compare to her. Honestly, news of her marriage had probably come at the perfect time because it seemed that after that screw up of a mission, he was working every second job with her. It was fantastic. 

The next mission he’d spent with a handler who didn’t go over contingency plans resulting in Clint being tortured. It was a mission in Alaska of all places, investigating A.I.M. activity. They’d stumbled upon who they thought was a civilian trapped under a wire net and when Smith sent Clint in, he was captured. He never did see Smith again. It was Coulson who came this time to haul his ass out of a bunker ten feet underground. 

“S’like when we first met.” Clint could remember deliriously grinning at Coulson after that. Coulson had only smiled indulgently and half dragged, half carried him out of the bunker. 

Most of that mission was a blur, but he did remember that when he woke up in the hospital, Coulson was sitting at his bedside, writing reports. It was a new experience. Clint had never woken up with someone sitting beside him, watching over him. At Hydra, Bucky wasn’t allowed into the room or there were days where he would have been there too. But they were kept fairly segregated. 

“Why?” Clint had asked thickly, staring at Coulson.

“Hey,” Coulson had replied, smiling at him. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

Clint had gestured impatiently at Coulson. “Why?” he croaked, ignoring the way it hurt his throat. He gestured again, mostly in Coulson’s direction but getting his bearings was kind of difficult. The world was still spinning. 

Coulson had blinked, probably pretty confused. “Why am I… here?” he asked, tentatively. Clint nodded, relieved. “Because you’re my asset. Someone has to make sure you’re safe. And Dr. Taylors’ is out today. I wasn’t sure you’d trust anyone else.”

“Oh,” Clint had slurred, surprised. “You can go now.”

“It’s pretty quiet here, actually. I’d rather stay.”

Clint had fallen asleep, watching Coulson do his paperwork. The man never left. 

Clint wasn’t sure which part he should take as being a sign; the fact that when his handlers didn’t run through contingency and emergency plans, he ended up in jail or that this only happened when Coulson was out on a mission? Either way, the situation with Holtz did not bode well. As they landed in France, everyone scattered to get in position. Clint started following the paths he’d chosen. 

“How’s it look out there Hawkeye?” drawled Holtz.

“All clear,” Clint replied cautiously, edging down the dark alleyway. “So far.”

Clint glanced around before scaling the nearby fire escape. This building had the best sightline to the lecture event. Anyone with a half decent eye and an expensive scope could make the shot. “Might not be for long though,” Clint commented.

“Hawkeye,” Holtz hissed tightly. “This is not the time or place for idle chitchat.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “What am I supposed to do for the next four hours then?” 

“Entertain yourself,” Holtz growled irately. “Not the rest of us. Comm. chat is for check-ins and emergency use only.”

“Fine, fine,” Clint replied airily as he pulled himself onto the top of the building. No sign of anyone. 

Clint scanned the surroundings; nothing was out of place. Everything looked just fine. “What’s it like in there?” Clint asked just to be an ass.

Holtz’s barely muffled growl was well worth it. “Would you shut up already?” 

“Just a question, boss man.”

That seemed to be all it took to determine the course of their interactions. Every check-in Clint gave, Holtz responded less and less. None of the others on Holtz’s team bothered to reply to Clint either and he wasn’t sure if it was because they were so under his thumb or if it had more to do with them not wanting to end up on his bad side. But Clint was pretty sure none of them liked Holtz. The man was an asshole.

Clint sighed and looked around, stopping when he heard what sounded like heavy boot steps as someone climbed the fire escape. How could he have missed that? “Holtz, there’s someone out here.”

“Take care of him, Hawk,” came Holtz’s tight voice. 

And then, the assailant pulled himself onto the roof. Clint drew an arrow smoothly, aiming it at the intruder as he took in the sniper rifle the man had carried with him. Clint fired the arrow smoothly and watched as the man ducked with what had to be supernatural skill, the arrow sailing over his body. It took a minute for what had to be the man’s laughter to catch up to Clint.

“Really boy?” huffed a familiar voice. “That any way to greet an old friend?” Duquesne got to his feet, grinning viciously at Clint.

“What are you doing here?” Clint asked numbly.

“I’m here for you,” Duquesne replied, smirking. “Chisholm sold us both, kid. You don’t get to just up and leave.”

“How’d you even find me?” Clint growled, drawing another arrow. It was at that moment that his comm. unit cut out completely.

The faint hum of background noise it had been picking up went dead silent. Clint risked a glance over at the building; nothing seemed out of the ordinary and there were no screams coming from within. However, it was all the distraction that Duquesne needed as he charged Clint. Clint spun; using the upper limb of his bow he narrowly deflected Duquesne’s short-sword. 

“A bow?” Duquesne mocked. “You trying to take after Chisholm or something? ‘Cos if you are, I gotta tell you, you ain’t nothin’ compared to him!” 

Duquesne lunged towards him, his sword an extension of his arm as he aimed to get through Clint’s defenses. Clint jerked backwards, shoving the lower limb of his bow at Duquesne’s sword. The blade glanced off the fibreglass and for a minute, Clint could have sworn he saw Duquesne’s eyes widen a fraction in surprise. But then he had rushed towards Clint again, a flurry of sharp deadliness in his every action. If Clint had a sword in hand, he would have been evenly matched against Duquesne –the man had spent ages training Clint in how to wield it. But he had never fought against his ex-mentor using a bow and arrow before. With a sword, Clint could have been taking advantage of the openings Duquesne was fond of leaving, but he didn’t have enough stability to draw an arrow as his mentor hacked away at Clint’s recurve. Clint grabbed an arrow from his quiver, twisted away out from Duquesne’s reach and lobbed it away from the man before blocking the man’s next strike. 

_Damn_ , Clint thought, mentally mapping out the trajectory of his shot. He didn’t have enough force in his throw. At least it would still hit; he would have a chance to recover the arrow. It was the only one he had brought with him. If he had a string or something, he could make a throwing arrow but string wasn’t exactly plentiful on a rooftop five stories off the ground. The easiest solution would be to fire, but Duquesne had spent too long rehearsing with Chisholm to give Clint that chance. If they weren’t in such close quarters, Clint would have missed Duquesne’s huff of laughter. It was satisfying when it cut off as Clint’s boomerang arrow slammed into his cheek. Without the proper force, it wasn’t enough to do much more damage than a bruise but as the arrow fell back, Clint snatched it up and leapt backwards, narrowly missing Duquesne’s sword. 

“You gettin’ tired yet, old man?” Clint jeered, ducking away from the next blow. “I could do this all day!” 

Duquesne snarled and leapt forward, his sword slashing for Clint’s leg just as his fist slammed into Clint’s temple. His blade bounced off from Clint’s recurve harmlessly. Grunting at the pain, Clint slammed the lower limb of his bow against the vulnerable side of Duquesne’s leg. Duquesne barked out a curse, hopping aside. Clint drew and fired at Duquesne’s dominant hand; but the man tilted his blade, stopping the arrow harmlessly. 

“Poor Ronin; all alone, without a master to care. Without a single friend in the universe. Or didn’t you know? Poor James is dead.”

Clint gritted his teeth. “That’s a lie.”

Duquesne straightened at that, interest lighting his eyes. “So, you do know where he is.”

Clint stiffened, drawing another arrow. “I won’t miss this time. I’m not going back.”

“Oh I think you’re gravely unprepared, boy,” Duquesne laughed. “But go ahead and try.”

Clint released the arrow smoothly, watching it sail towards Duquesne. The echoing twang of a bowstring cut through the noise and Clint turned towards the sound, peripherally watching as the second arrow slammed into his, knocking it aside. Atop the next building, Clint could just make out the form of someone in a black trench coat standing there, a bow in hand. Clint glanced at the Swordsman just in time to deflect his blow, slamming his bow against the Swordsman’s solar plexus. Scuffling with Duquesne though, came with a price. Clint couldn’t focus on everything, and despite his best efforts to keep Duquesne between him and the archer, Duquesne managed to trip Clint with his sword and sent him stumbling to the edge of the building. Clint grabbed onto the ledge desperately, throwing his weight against it as he watched his bow fall into the alley below. 

Crawling up, Clint pressed a finger to his comm. unit. “Holtz,” he begged, hating the way his voice cracked as he heard the snap of a bowstring. “Holtz, I need that back-up.” Clint flinched instinctively as the arrow slammed through his pant-leg. Instinctively, he jerked his leg away, ignoring the rip of fabric as he went to stand. “You’re hopeless,” Duquesne laughed, standing over him. “You think we didn’t know you ended up in S.H.I.E.L.D. –you thought we couldn’t find you there?”

Clint sat back down warily, his quiver pressing into his back. “I thought if I left you guys alone, you’d show the same courtesy.”

“We don’t work that way, Clinton.”

Duquesne lifted his sword, pressing it against Clint’s neck. “Now. Tell me what I want to know. Where is the Winter Soldier?”

Clint glanced at the blade nervously. “Well, he’s not here.”

Duquesne arched an unimpressed eyebrow. “Cut the smartassery or I’ll cut you.”

Clint looked up the blade, straight into Duquesne’s blue eyes. “I have to say, I don’t think the big bosses would like that very much. You know how they get.”

Once, a long time ago, Jacques Duquesne was a mild-tempered man. He liked kids for the most part and loved performing in the circus. But he also had a habit of gambling and got himself in some trouble with Chisholm. So Chisholm sold him out to Hydra. As a Beta, Duquesne was nobody special except for his skills. He got a glorified teaching position and rarely left their established base. But over the years, his bitterness at life grew to consume him in various ways. He gambled more, drank more. Hydra punished him when he couldn’t pay what he owed, but it never stopped him. It just did something to the person he used to be, it turned him colder and crueler. 

Duquesne smirked, a delighted glint lighting his eyes up, and Clint knew that nothing had changed in all the time he’d been away from Hydra. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, you ingrate.” If anything, Hydra had probably punished Duquesne for losing both Clint and Bucky in the same day. 

Clint lost his train of thought as Duquesne grabbed an arrow and shoved it through his chest. The pain didn’t register until Duquesne was grabbing a second arrow as Clint’s lips fell open in an enraged shout. Dimly, he was grateful it wasn’t an explosive arrow implanted in his chest. 

“Where is the Winter Soldier?” Duquesne growled, a sadistic grin crawling across his lips. 

Clint could feel the blood running down his stomach. “I heard he went home,” Clint gasped out. “Back to the cold Russian winters.” For good measure, he spat at his torturer, sweeping his legs out to knock Duquesne onto his ass.

Standing proved to be more difficult that he had expected. Duquesne was already up, one of Clint’s arrows still clutched in his hands. Thankfully, it was just a regular arrow. His sword had fallen aside and the Swordsman wasn’t willing to give Clint the chance to get it. 

“Still scared of me?” Clint laughed wheezily. That, actually, probably wasn’t a good sign. “You won’t even fight me on even terms.”

“You don’t deserve them,” he fired back, shifting his hold on the arrow. 

“I kicked your ass last time, I can do it again,” Clint threatened.

Duquesne raised his arm, signalling –and, oh, right. There was an archer. The familiar whoosh of an arrow streaming through the air and then it felt like someone had knocked his leg out from under him as Clint fell back down. It wasn’t until he looked down that he realized what had happened. He’d been shot; clean through his thigh, narrowly missing his artery. Clint reached out a shaking hand towards the arrow, watching in horror at the blood running down his leg. 

“You’re outnumbered,” Duquesne retorted. “And outplayed. I’m not here to kill you. I’m just here to bring you home.”

“No,” Clint growled out, slamming his hands down against the rooftop. “No.” Despite the throbbing in his leg, he gingerly began to push himself to his feet. It was getting harder to breathe. Better to be dead than to go back to Hydra.

Clint launched himself forward, screaming in pain as he felt the arrows push deeper while he grabbed Duquesne’s sword with both hands. No one was going to be saving him from this. Clint charged towards Duquesne, feeling his grip slacken against his will as black started to edge into his vision. He wasn’t going back, not without a fight. Duquesne grabbed onto the sword blade with experienced hands, halting the start of Clint’s attack. Clint jerked backwards, satisfied as he sliced the Swordsman’s hands open before stabbing at him. The sword slipped between his arm and side, just narrowly missing what would have been a fatal wound. Gray and white flecks started to speckle across Clint’s vision and with a desperate cry, he slashed to the side, driving the blade past Duquesne. Clint dropped to his knees, weightless, as he collapsed. 

He wouldn’t tell them about Bucky. Bucky was currently bartending at a strip club back in New York. Bucky, who had met the acquaintance of one Nadine Roman. He was courting her, in some kind of an old-fashioned gesture. Bucky was trying to move on. He hadn’t been violent, had kept away from it. It didn’t matter what they did to him. He wouldn’t sell Bucky out; he wouldn’t put all those innocents in danger. If Hydra knew, they would burn the joint to the ground. Or force Bucky to do it. Clint couldn’t let that happen. He’d had enough people fail him in his life. He wasn’t going to do the same to anyone else.

Duquesne hauled Clint up by the back of his suit, removing the comm. unit. He turned it over in his hand before pulling out a cell phone. Clint felt his eyelids grow heavy, drooping shut. He couldn’t really see much, think much. It was… fuzzy. It hurt.

“Holtz, job’s done. Payment’s in the dumpster out back. Good work.”

Consciousness fled as quickly as the realization crept in. S.H.I.E.L.D. had betrayed him.

Clint 

Clint woke up with a start, panic creeping in when he realized he couldn’t see. _He couldn’t see._ He twisted violently, the hard leather restraints keeping him tied down. Clint screamed in frustration, slamming his body against the restraints desperately. _Not again, not again,_ he begged. A burning prickle seared his eyes. His skin felt too hot, too tight. He couldn’t breathe. Clint gasped for a breath, tugging at the restraints feebly. It was no use; he was chained down and blinded. Any minute, any minute the interrogators would come in. They’d take out their scalpels or the water boards. He was shaking so hard he could hear his chains rattling against the bed. It was too loud, god; he was making too much noise. His breath caught in his chest, and he choked on the tears and the phlegm. Fuck. Fuck, they would be coming in any second. Clint pulled at his chains, hating the whimper that spilled past his lips, echoing in the room with his short breaths and the rattling of his chains. He couldn’t seem to stop panting, grasping at every breath of oxygen, trying to breathe.

The restraints wouldn't give in, he couldn't move. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t even breathe. If he couldn’t get himself under control, the interrogators wouldn’t even have to do anything. He couldn’t look for himself, tell if they were there, if they were coming. Was he in the observation room? Were they already watching him? Clint jolted in fear as one of his cuffs banged against the metal edge of the bed –shit they were coming. They were coming and there was nothing he could do. His throat closed off and Clint tried to scream, but he couldn’t make a sound. He clawed at the bed helplessly, writhing against the restraints. A door slammed somewhere and Clint twisted towards the noise, his heart hammering. 

He wouldn’t be able to save Bucky. To keep him safe. Fuck, any second the interrogators would be in and they’d ask him where the Winter Soldier was and Clint would babble it all out. He’d betray Bucky the way he’d been betrayed himself. The pain would be next; they couldn’t just take his confession and do nothing so they’d cut Clint up a little before they went to collect Bucky, before they dragged him screaming down here to the dungeon for Clint to watch in horror as they broke Bucky-the-person and turned him back into the Winter Soldier. And it would be all his fault. It was his idea to get them out of here, to hide, to turn to S.H.I.E.L.D. Bucky would never be the same, would likely never forgive Clint. They’d be in Hydra’s hands forever. It was a fluke that they’d managed to escape last time; Hydra would never give them the opportunity again. They’d push harder with the brainwashing, maybe even snap Bucky in half with that. Maybe wipe Bucky entirely; leaving only the machine that was the Winter Soldier. 

He was going to die here, alone. Bound and blind, he would never know what killed him. The suffocation of his body betraying him? He gasped out another, shuddery breath, on the verge of hyperventilating. What was wrong with him? He’d never been able to hear the way other people did, since he was a kid. All he had was his eyesight and without that he was nothing. He was worse than nothing, he was useless. Useless wound up dead. Fuck, he couldn’t stop choking. There wasn’t enough air. Everything was growing dizzy; it felt like someone had taken his bed and was running him in wild circles with it. Clint cried out pathetically, begging for them to stop, as he tossed and turned against his restraints, fighting with everything he had. He ran out of energy at the same time he ran out of breath, collapsing against the bed, open and vulnerable to whoever walked into the room. There was nothing he could do. They would come in and kill him, torture him, and there was nothing he could do. Fuck, fuck. He was dead. He couldn’t breathe –there wasn’t enough air in the whole universe.

Another door slammed, closer. Much closer. Shit, they were here already. They’d come to kill him. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to live. He wanted it to stop, just everything. He was useless. They were going to kill him. He was going to sell Bucky out, and they’d tear him apart piece by piece before disposing of him. No one would care. S.H.I.E.L.D. had already sold him out; clearly they didn’t want him. No one needed him; there were plenty of assassins in the world. The heavy step of a boot step alerted him to someone’s presence. An inhuman keen of agony ripped its way free from his throat –no, no, god. He wasn’t ready to give up his freedom. He wasn’t ready to go back. He wasn’t ready to die, not yet. Fuck what would he even do if he lived? Murder more people. He deserved this. 

“Stop with the blubbering already,” came a familiar bark. “You can be so pathetic sometimes.”

Clint froze; his heart about to beat out of his chest. His fingers spasmed involuntarily. “B-Barney?” he croaked.

“Who else did you think it was?” Barney snarked. “Jesus, no wonder they almost didn’t take me. How’m I supposed to make this look good for me?”

Clint curled his fingers against the metal of the bed, ignoring the way it pinched his skin. He could hold onto it, feel the pain. Remind himself that this was real. “What do you mean?”

“FBI didn’t like my “methods” so I needed a better prospect. Hydra was hiring.”

“No,” Clint pleaded, his voice suddenly turning brittle.

Barney snorted. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world for me, baby bro.”

“What are you doing here?” Clint asked weakly, hating himself for the way his breath hitched, on the verge of a sob. At least he couldn’t see himself. The unexpected slap to his cheek did nothing to help his racing heartbeat or the way his breath had started to stutter. “B-Barn?” he asked, voice wobbling.

“To smack some sense into you,” Barney said, snorting out a laugh. “Seriously, if you keep moving around like this, you’ll rip your wounds open. Again. You nearly died on the operating table already, doing that dumbass stunt. Who even does that?”

Clint frowned, knowing it was no good, that the blindfold covered half his face. “W-what?” Clint asked, struggling to keep track of what Barney was saying, what it meant. “Diving for the sword, ya dummy. You broke the arrows off, drove ‘em in deeper while you were at it.”

Right. Clint could remember that. “Wh-what’s that got to do with you?” 

Barney snorted. “I was the one who shot you in the leg? Remember that?”

This wasn’t even real. No way. Barney had never studied under Chisholm. He wouldn’t –he shouldn’t know how to use a bow. Clint nodded weakly, even as he dismissed Barney’s words. 

“I didn’t know it was you though,” Barney continued, oblivious to Clint’s struggle. “It was my first paid job. I’m here as a contractor, you know, apparently it’s helpful to have an FBI agent on the inside or whatever.”

Clint could care less. Barney’s voice cut in and out, and Clint just focused on one deep breath in and one breath out. 

“Chisholm was an ass, always refusing to teach me. But I hung around, watched you. Learned a few things,” Barney chuckled. “So I guess you can thank yourself for the new scar.”

It was getting harder to block out Barney’s voice. _Couldn’t it have just been a nightmare?_ Clint wondered. This whole Barney part. They hadn’t seen each other since Barney had sold him to Hydra, and how he was here, working for them like he belonged there. He was just a Beta. No one special except for all his ties to Clint. Had they arranged it intentionally? To get Barney here, to use him against Clint?

“I hear they used to call you Ronin, when you worked here. And swordsmanship, really? How’d you lose to Jacques? Well, they call me Trick Shot these days.”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, as though it would block out Barney’s voice. He inhaled evenly and exhaled heavily. His entire body felt like it was weighted down with lead. He didn’t want to move, for that matter he wasn’t even sure he could move anytime soon. He had enough sense back that he was aware of the aches and pains in his body. His wrists and ankles were the worst off from all his thrashing around, but the throbbing tension in his thigh and chest were different. Those would be from his attackers. He was definitely lucky that he hadn’t accidentally ripped them wide open. 

“Why are you here Barney?” Clint demanded tiredly. “Is it really for the money? The connections? Or are you here to blackmail me?”

Barney snorted. “They’d have to be pretty friggen’ stupid to think they could use me as a hostage for you.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “Now will you get out?” _Just leave me alone,_ Clint thought exhaustedly. 

“Orders, they want me down here. Can’t risk you opening that pesky wound again!” The forced cheer in his voice only grated on Clint’s raw nerves more.

“I won’t,” Clint replied tightly. “I’m tied down. All that moving around earlier didn’t open them. Besides, I’m not suicidal.”

Clint heard the distinct sound of fabric shifting. He wondered whether Barney had sat down –was there even a place for him to sit? Or had his brother just shrugged? “You want me to go, I’ll go.”

“Yes,” Clint growled. 

The last he had seen of Barney was him standing at the entrance to the circus, turning over a wad of cash in his hand, looking like he’d just found the solution to his every problem. And maybe he had. Maybe that was why he’d decided to just sell Clint. As though he had any right to someone else’s freedom. The image was burned onto the back of his eyelids, tainting every memory he ever had of his older brother. Barney was a lot of things, but a good brother was definitely not one. He very rarely had Clint’s best interest at heart. Barney came first and always would. Clint was the afterthought, the little brother he’d never counted on. 

“Okay,” he said, his voice more subdued. “I’ll go.”

“I don’t want to see you again,” Clint said roughly. “I don’t want to hear your voice or even your name.” 

Barney took three steps; Clint counted them, tracking the sound when Barney suddenly stopped. “You might not want to hear it… but Clint, I was just a fucked up kid with nowhere to go. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Another three steps. Pause. Four steps, the door swung open and then shut. 

Clint clenched his hands. That apology was worth exactly nothing. The only person Clint had ever had in his life to rely on was his big brother. His big brother, who threw a collar on his neck, dragged him out from under the big top and threw him at the feet of Baron Strucker. Clint had watched in confused horror as one of the Hydra agents had walked over and handed Barney a wad of cash. Honestly, at first, Clint hadn’t understood what was going on. He thought Barney was just pissed that Chisholm had taken Clint out for an impromptu dinner celebration. But then he’d caught sight of Duquesne, trussed up in the back of the truck and he’d realized that he was being sold into a sketchy organization. Clint had stumbled to his feet, started towards his brother when a hand caught him by the back of his shirt and threw him aside easily. Not one to be deterred, Clint had only launched to his feet and raced over to Barney.

“Barney, give ‘em the money back,” Clint had urged him. “And we can go home. Please.”

Barney had looked at the cash in his hand and then to someone behind Clint. “We don’t have a home,” he’d said just before one of the Hydra goons had hauled Clint back.

Clint shouted, but they quickly gagged him and tossed him into the back of the truck. No one even looked over. It was the evening, sunlight glinting off Barney’s red hair, casting him in the long shadow of his brother. Barney was counting his money; he didn’t even look up as they drove off with Clint. Needless to say, his welcome to Hydra was no less pleasant than the long truck ride over. Duquesne didn’t say a word the whole time. But the first thing Strucker had ordered was for them to be separated, for Clint to be sent to the range, to test his skills. When he refused, they dumped a bucket of ice water over his head and sent him to bed with no food or drink. Nothing to keep himself dry with either. He stopped refusing the second day, when he developed a cough. They were pleased with his marksmanship and sent him on to the Winter Soldier for lessons. 

The rest was pretty much history. Clint was a dumbass fifteen year old, following around a mute twenty-one year old. Learning the tools of the trade, learning how to kill fast, how to kill slow and how to extract information. Clint wasn’t even sure how long it had been before they added Duquesne into the mix where Clint quickly picked up how to fight with a sword. They gave him an outfit, something similar to a samurai’s robes, all black and lined with gold. He took the katana they gave him and marched out to his missions, wishing he could get away. He used to dream of freedom. Of Barney growing a conscience, coming back to rescue him. Even though he knew it would never happen, he’d never considered that Barney might have one day joined the same organization he’d sold his little brother out to.

The door opened again, creaking a long eerie note that left Clint tense and afraid.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ronin.” The speaker chuckled and goosebumps raced down Clint’s exposed extremities. “Nice to see you again. If you’re a good boy, we can make this quick,” he purred. 

Clint gathered the spit in his mouth, forcing himself to let go of the bedframe. He had to keep strong. He couldn’t freak out like he had earlier. He needed to keep Bucky safe. He would tell them whatever they wanted about S.H.I.E.L.D. He couldn’t keep back everything they wanted to know, but he had no reason to protect that organization. Coulson’s face came to mind, his kindly blue eyes. There was no way that Coulson had sold him out –but Clint had thought that before, about Barney. People did what they thought they had to. It wasn’t impossible. But Clint couldn’t imagine Coulson working with guys like this, not even Baron Strucker. He just couldn’t see it. Maybe he could keep a few of Coulson’s secrets safe too. Maybe.

He waited until the interrogator had moved over him to start slicing before he spat at him. He dug deep, into the place he always went when the torture started. Where he could hold onto his fragile memories, the people he wanted to protect. He tucked Bucky safely there and fit Coulson in where he could before he tried to fight the torturer off. He was careless about his injuries. They didn’t matter. Hydra wouldn’t let him die and every interrogator knew just how much the human body could withstand. They wouldn’t kill him, not even by accident. No matter how much, at times, he wished they would. 


	5. Run Boy Run

It was the right decision to leave Steve behind on this one, Phil thought as he crouched down, examining the scene of destruction. Banner had definitely been by. They'd had to wait until he'd crossed several international borders before S.H.I.E.L.D. could get involved and despite Fury's initial hesitation, Phil had pushed him into investigating the situation. It meant they'd stepped on General Ross' toes, but it had to be done. Banner was valuable to them, if only for Captain Rogers' benefit. But Phil felt, that somehow, Bruce Banner would prove to be more valuable than for just one reason. Which was how he'd ended up backpacking through a Brazilian rainforest, following the path of destruction that was nearly a mile wide. Unlike Steve, the serum had not affected Banner with the same positive effects. Under Phil's guidance, they had been tracking Banner for the last four months. They had kept their distance, not wanting to spook him. Steve had asked for answers though and Phil just wanted one conversation with Banner, to get a few a few them for him. He'd had no luck in tracking down anything about Natalie Rushman; it was like she was a ghost. 

Phil hadn't even realized he was out of comm. service until a panicked babble of voices reached his ears. It was nearly deafening in the silence of the forest until the sound of their voices reached his ears. 

"What's going on?" Phil asked, looking around his surroundings warily. He was losing Banner foot by foot, the longer he waited. But he couldn't risk losing comm. service either, until he knew. 

"Phil!" Jasper blurted out, relieved. 

Sitwell was supposed to be babysitting Barton. Phil set his backpack down. "What's the situation?" 

"Barton's AWOL." 

Phil blinked at that. "It hasn't been forty-eight hours since we left New York. He can't be AWOL. That doesn't even make sense." 

"Phil. I'm telling you. He's gone; we can't find a trace of him." 

"Was he captured?" Phil pressed. 

"According to Holtz and his team… no. He just vanished." 

"People don't just disappear," Phil said calmly. There was no way Barton would just leave. In his entire year at S.H.I.E.L.D. he had only left without leave once. 

"That's Holtz's story," Jasper said apologetically. "He's calling for a Code Eight, Phil." 

Phil clenched his hands. "He hasn't been gone for forty-eight hours." 

"No one's been able to get in contact with him and the surveillance equipment in the area cut out. We don't know where he is." 

Phil looked around, frustrated. He could do nothing from the middle of Brazil. "Switch me out Jasper. You can follow Banner but I need to track Barton down." 

"I submitted the paperwork to Hill already," Jasper replied. "Word is that the extraction team will get to you in a few hours." 

Phil said his farewells and backtracked out of the forest. There was no way Barton had gone rogue, not without someone giving him a push in that direction. Which Holtz could have done. But Barton would have contacted Hill or Sitwell in that case. Barton liked them about as much as he liked getting in trouble. If neither Hill nor Sitwell had been contacted, it didn't make sense. If he had spoken to either of them and had his complaints ignored, Phil could see Barton taking off to have a temper tantrum. But this? This was just unusual. 

Barton had been doing so well. Phil massaged his temples as he waited. If he could find no trace of the probationary agent, it would be assumed that he was a rogue agent. Then they would call in the Code Eight. Code Eight referred to an agent gone rogue with a shoot to kill order if arrest seemed unlikely. Code Eights were intentionally vaguely worded as often the rogue agents were more dangerous alive than dead. Perhaps the single worst thing about Code Eights had to be that for any asset gone rogue, their handler was put in charge of bringing them in or killing them. Fury's own failsafe to ensure that handlers weren't traitors too. It also gave assets a greater chance to prove themselves. 

It was a relief when the sound of a quinjet reached his eats. Within thirty minutes they were in the air, leaving Brazil behind. Jasper was just leaving the States and it would be another four hours before he arrived. Phil's quinjet flew to France; there were no stops to check in. Phil graciously took the hours he could get, to sleep. They weren't many –they never were –but they would have to be enough. 

Phil hid a yawn as he trudged into the hotel that was currently housing Holtz and his team. Each of them had been separated as soon as possible to prevent them corroborating a story. Their statements were already on file. Phil went to Holtz's room first. It would have been deeply satisfying if he got anything out of the man, but Holtz maintained his story. As did every member of Holtz's team. They even had enough variations to make it believable. The gist was just that Barton had gotten lippy and Holtz shut the comm off. When he turned the comm back on fifteen minutes later, it was silent. They said there was no sign of Barton or evidence of a fight. It didn't make sense. 

Phil hopped into the surveillance van and started going through their records of the night in question. And wonder of wonders, found the first discrepancy. Barton's last GPS transmitted location was on top of a five storey apartment complex, not on top of the convenience store a block away. Hayes, the driver and his partner Leo (who managed the electronics) drove him to the complex in question. Phil searched around the alleys first but there was no sign of a scuffle. However, the roof of the building told a very different storey. There were bloodstains, blood splatter and strange chips dug into the roof. 

"Leo," Phil called. "I need some blood samples done up here." 

Ten minutes later and the young scientist was examining the scene. "It's Hawkeye's," he said warily. "And this over here is an unknown male's blood." 

Phil frowned. "That's a lot of blood for Agent Barton to have lost." 

Leo nodded. "With immediate medical attention, it's possible he survived." 

Possible. "What can you make of the scene?" 

Leo pulled up a holographic image. "Based on the amount of blood, and this is just a theory, but he may have been stabbed through the stomach or chest area. There isn't enough evidence for a conclusive probability. We know Hawkeye was stabbed, that he was likely lying down and his attacker was taller but also injured." 

Which, all told, wasn't very much to go on. "Do you think Agent Holtz's story holds up?" he pondered. 

"Mostly? But I do have to say that there was a comm transmission from outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. resources to Agent Holtz's location that lasted five seconds." 

Phil frowned. That sounded even worse. "Thank you Leo," he said, distractedly. 

Leo packed up his equipment and walked down through the building ahead of Phil. They reached the van and Hayes drove them back to the hotel where Holtz and his team were still being detained. While Phil had never really liked Holtz, especially given his treatment of Barton, he didn't want to believe the man was a traitor to S.H.I.E.L.D. Holtz had been an agent for as long as Phil had been –it wasn't an easy pill to swallow, the fact that Holtz might be a traitor himself. But if he had done anything to Barton… Phil clenched and unclenched his hands. The damn kid had just started to trust him, to trust in S.H.I.E.L.D. Whatever history Barton had, it had left him scarred and resentful of trusting anyone. Hopefully the connection he'd established with Barton would be enough to bring him back into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fold. Barton for all his authority issues and struggles was a great agent and had the potential to go far for S.H.I.E.L.D. provided he was willing to sign on after. 

Phil could feel the exhaustion weighing his limbs down. For a moment, as he stood in the hotel lobby, he was sorely tempted to check into a room of his own and sleep. Holtz could stew in his own suspense. But if for whatever reason Barton _had_ gone rogue, Phil would need every second to catch up. Barton would not be easy to catch –S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him the skills to ensure that. Phil got into the elevator and punched the button for Holtz's floor. No matter how he examined the situation, it seemed more and more likely that Holtz was the traitor and not Barton. Holtz lied about Barton's location, received a mysterious transmission and had reason to hold a grudge against the probationary agent. As far as Phil was aware of, Barton had no reason to go rogue. He wouldn't get much if he was trying to sell S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets. Phil left the elevator, walking down to Holtz's room. Unless Holtz had a spectacular insight on Barton, it was likely that Holtz had set up this entire situation. But for what purpose? 

"Holtz," Phil stated wearily as he entered the room. "I know you lied. Barton was never on the convenience store." He shut the door behind him. 

The only light in the room was the lampshade above Holtz, who was seated on the plush white sofa like a king. At Phil's words, Holtz stiffened imperceptibly and turned to face him. "That's where he said he would be." 

Phil clenched his teeth for a moment, inhaling. He relaxed on his exhale, reminding himself to keep calm. Anger wouldn't do much here. "His blood was found splattered across an apartment rooftop. And I know someone contacted you at the lecture." He paused. "You are aware that the purpose of a secure S.H.I.E.L.D. line is to keep our agents safe and our secrets secret?" 

"You don't say," Holtz drawled. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I don't know where you're getting this information, but no one contacted me. And it isn't my fault if Barton got flighty and switched perches without updating me!" 

"It's your job to coordinate with the techs and Probationary Agent Barton. But you cut the comm system down. They couldn't have contacted you to let you know about the outsider and neither could Barton." 

Holtz shrugged carelessly. "I needed to focus." 

"It's your job to coordinate with everyone," Phil growled. "And now my agent is out there, possibly dead or captured in enemy hands." 

"Or maybe he just took off on his own –" 

"If he's dead, it'll be your head on a pike for Director Fury. Now tell me what you know." 

"I've got nothing," Holtz fired back. "I don't know what more you want me to say." 

"The truth." 

"Barton switches perches out all the time with his handlers without saying anything! You can't blame this one on me Coulson." 

"I know you received a transmission from an outside force. Explain that one then." 

"I didn't," Holtz argued. 

"Well the techs aren't going to lie to me about it. But if you did receive a transmission and you know you've been caught, I can see you trying to lie your way out of the situation. Tell me who it was." 

Holtz clammed up. It was one of those moments. Did Phil stick with trying to get a different answer out of Holtz or did he start looking for new leads? Phil really didn't know. It was possible Holtz was just an idiot who knew nothing, or he could be faking it to hide the truth. Phil glanced at the agent, at how coiled and defensive Holtz's body language was. No, he was definitely hiding something. Hiding what he'd no doubt orchestrated to do to Barton. But Phil didn't have the energy to intimidate the truth out of him. There would be time for that later. He needed to find Barton. 

Phil walked out, leaving Holtz to his pampered prison. He could try again tomorrow, come at Holtz with some new information. Maybe he'd bring a weapon in with him. Solely for intimidation purposes, of course. Hopefully Barton was alive. Being as badly injured as Leo theorized, Barton wouldn't be able to get far. Phil sent a text to Leo requesting he search the city cameras to see if anyone matching Barton's profile showed up. Phil headed back down to the lobby, signed himself into a room and then trudged back upstairs. He didn't bother showering; instead he collapsed on his bed and passed out. It was a rough and unpleasant six hours of sleep, but sorely needed. Phil didn't even know what time it was when he woke up; it was bright sunlight everywhere, but to Phil it still felt like nighttime. Phil got up and stripped out of the dirty clothes, taking a few extra minutes to luxuriate in a shower before drying off. He pulled on a new, fresh suit, adjusted his tie automatically and went down to the buffet. He snagged a bagel on his way past, and headed to the surveillance van. Leo was sitting in front of the monitors, a picture of Clint Barton's mugshot on one portion of a screen. 

"Any luck?" Phil asked, taking a bite of his bagel. It was good, filling. Come to think of it, Phil couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. 

"Not so far," Leo sighed. "Almost had one match and I've picked up some suspicious activity in the neighborhood but no matches." 

Phil nodded, sitting down beside Leo as he ate his bagel. Leo chatted on about what else he'd observed in the city. The problem with Barton was the lack of information on him, really. Before he was part of S.H.I.E.L.D. he was living on the streets and before that, no one knew. There was no trace of the mysterious James Barnes or Jacques Duquesne. 

"Show me the almost match," Phil requested. Maybe it would be something. 

Leo pulled it up on the screen closest to Phil. And, well, that was something alright. Phil stared at the image. That was unquestionably Barney Barton. What was an FBI agent doing in France? The FBI was not involved in this case. Phil reached over to the keyboard, pulling up Barney's profile in the FBI database. Nothing had changed. That was suspicious. Barton – Clint –had never tried to get in touch since he was free. And the same was true for Barney. Coincidence that they were both three thousand six hundred some miles away from the United States? In the same city even? No. It wasn't possible. Phil scanned the profile information. FBI agent Barney Barton worked under Supervisory Agent Kendall. 

Phil dialled the number. Agent Kendall answered on the third ring; the weary tone of her voice echoing with the same tiredness Phil currently felt. 

"This is Agent Phillip J Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. Is Barney Barton currently working a case in France?" he asked. 

It seemed to take her a moment to process. "No he is not." 

"I have him on my security footage. And his younger brother is currently missing." Was it a coincidence? 

Agent Kendall was silent for a prolonged moment. "I was unaware that Barney had any living family left." 

"His brother is currently in my employment and missing. Odd, then, that his older brother would turn up in France where he has no business being." 

"Very," agreed Agent Kendall. "If you wish to investigate him, you have my support. Just send him back in one piece." 

"Thank you," Phil said, surprised at her generosity. 

It was usually impossible to get a favor like that. Permission to interrogate another agency's agent if the opportunity arose. Maybe Barney hadn't been making friends during his time in the FBI. Phil bade her goodbye and hung up. Phil turned to Leo, who was doing his best to appear to not be listening to the conversation. 

"I need you to find Barney Barton for me." 

"I can do that. Not sure how long it will take, though." 

"Take as long you need. I need to have another talk with Holtz." 

Phil had just left the van when his phone went off. The heavy beats had him cringing as he pulled his phone out and answered Fury's call. "Coulson speaking." 

"Update me," Fury ordered. 

"No sign of Barton yet. Assuming he got medical attention, he's still alive. No report of any John Doe's turning up in the morgue or the hospital. I'm going to hit up the medical clinics after I have a conversation with Holtz. He's hiding something; lied to me about Barton's perch, allowing unsecure lines to tap into his comm system. His team are all backing him. I'm trying to track down Barney Barton who appears to be in France at this time; his supervisory agent gave the go ahead for an interrogation if it comes to that." 

"He was injured?" Fury inquired. "Doesn't sound like a Code Eight needs to be called." 

"We confirmed the blood was Barton's." 

"Hit up the clinics first. I want a conversation with Holtz." As usual, Fury hung up without so much as a goodbye. 

Phil pulled up his map, the clinics already highlighted and headed to the nearest one. It took him the rest of the afternoon to get through interviewing the doctors only to come out with a description of Clint as well as the man who had brought Clint in. The man was about six foot four, with black hair and blue eyes. He was by no means the most attractive man out there, he was broad and buff. The doctor –Henderson –had almost refused to provide service to Clint because of the brute who hauled him in had a sword in hand. But Henderson had been too worried that Clint would die, so he'd done his best to patch him up. And then the swordsman drew his sword, threatened to kill them all, grabbed Clint and vanished. It wasn't much, but at least they still knew Clint was alive. 

Phil stopped in to check with Leo before he continued back to the hotel. As he stepped up towards the van, the beauty of the city struck him for a moment. They were in the heart of Paris and the entire city was painted in golden reds, the palest of pink clouds floating through the dim skies. As beautiful as it was, it was yet another sign of the time he was losing on catching up to whoever had taken Clint. Phil stepped into the van. 

"Oh perfect timing!" Leo babbled, waving Phil over. "I was looking at some algorithms, to see if there was a way to find out what that transmission to Agent Holtz was about and I found a way to do it." 

Phil blinked. "What is it?" Seemed an odd place for Leo to stop, in the middle of the story. 

"Well I can't read the codes," Leo admitted. "But I did find someone who can." Phil watched him. Leo winced. "Uh, she's a bit… unorthodox, perhaps. But definitely qualified. She's on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watch list. But I can't think of another hacker who would have the skills to read these files as soon as you want done. Her name is Skye. And I have a contact number for her, but I'm not sure if we can –" 

"Call her." 

The only reason Phil authorized it, was because he had met with Skye several years prior. Just to make sure she understood which government agency not to mess with. She hadn't attempted to hack S.H.I.E.L.D. since so Phil considered their conversation a success. Just as he classified this one to be when Leo managed to get in touch with her. She was a good kid, interested in helping them to save Barton's life. She had potential; last time he'd met with her she hadn't seemed quite so promising. But she seemed gentler around the edges this time. Phil would definitely be writing this up and sending the file to Fury to consider recruiting her into S.H.I.E.L.D. Skye chatted on as she explained what she was doing. Leo was nodding along with her, his eyes on the screen seemingly fascinated by her work. 

In under twenty minutes she had pulled up the audio file. "Well this is it," she said, alight with energy. "I'm playing it for you now." 

_"Holtz, job's done. Payment's in the dumpster out back. Good work."_

Phil blinked in surprise. Holtz was definitely lying –and Phil couldn't wait to get his hands on him. But that aside… The voice was unfamiliar. Lightly accented, from the Midwest perhaps? 

"Holy shit." 

Phil glanced at the monitor, at Skye's open shock. "What is it?" 

"That's Jacques Duquesne," she said, something akin to horrified awe in her voice. 

Phil resisted the urge to sigh as he sat down next to Leo. Barney Barton and Jacques Duquesne turning up in France together? No way was it a coincidence. Least of all when Clint Barton had gone missing. "Who is he?" 

"A hitman for Hydra," she said, quietly. She paused, glancing around the interior of her van. It was looking a right bit cleaner than when he'd last seen her. "He doesn't waste time. They usually call him Swordsman, though, or that's what he prefers." 

"Steve Rogers disassembled Hydra's forces over a year ago," Leo argued. 

Skye laughed at that. "Maybe the ones in Afghanistan? But there are… plenty of them out here." 

"What do you mean?" Leo demanded. 

"Like you don't know," she laughed. She paused, studying their expressions. "Okay. So maybe you don't know? But there's been a lot of activity lately. Omegas going missing, police ignoring them… that kind of a thing?" 

"We're looking into it," Phil assured her. "For now, I just need to find my asset. What can you tell me about Duquesne?" 

There had been whispers. A lot of whispers about Hydra. Which Fury was taking care to investigate, and they were keeping Captain Rogers involved in what they could discover combined with what he remembered of the operation he was last involved in. It was mostly speculation that Fury was following. 

"He uses a sword to kill people. He travels around a lot but I hear right now he's been busy in Europe? I don't really know. I try to stay out of Hydra's business." 

"Understandable," Phil agreed. "Now Skye, can I borrow your skills for a little longer? We caught footage of two men suspected to be involved. Can I get you to track them down?" 

"Absolutely. But what's in it for me?" 

"A legal job?" Phil asked, exasperatedly. "A bed to sleep in under four walls, three square meals a day with snack availability? And all we'd need is your computer skills." 

It took him a minute to realize that she was actually considering his offer. An offer he didn't technically have the clearance to authorize. It would be fine, if they got Hawkeye back. Probably even if they didn't. 

"When do I start?" 

"Now," Phil answered. "I'll send someone to bring you in. But first I need you to find these two men." 

Leo was courteous enough to pull up their profiles and send them over to Skye. 

"I want you to know before I do this though, that I'm only agreeing because it's dangerous out here. And this could put me on their radar." 

"I'm making the call now," Phil assured her. He pulled out his phone, texting the details to Maria Hill. She had enough power, she would back his decision. For now. Later on she might send him unnecessary paperwork, but that was the way she operated. 

"It's going to take me a while," she said, almost apologetically. 

"Don't worry about it," Phil assured her, as he stood. "I have to go see a man about a horse." 

"Eww." 

Phil 

It was hard to remember feeling more satisfied. Phil watched in vindication as Holtz's body tumbled off the chair with the force of Phil's punch. 

"I don't like liars," Phil said carefully, watching Holtz. "Now I want you to tell me everything you know about Jacques Duquesne and what he's doing to Clint Barton." 

"Or what?" Holtz snarled. "You'll hit me again?" He spat on the floor, getting back up. "You're no interrogator Coulson." 

Phil raised an eyebrow slowly. "Does that make me incapable of beating you? I suspect you got a call from the Director today. I imagine he stated that it would be in your best interest to come clean." 

"Well you aren't him, are you Phillip?" Holtz snarled. 

The crack as Phil's knuckles collided with his face was particularly gratifying. "I don't have all day Holtz. And neither do you; I already know about Duquesne's message to you. That your payment was in the dumpster. I know he works for Hydra." It was even better to see Holtz's eyes light up in fear at that word. As much as Holtz likely deserved it, Phil wasn't going to be the one interrogating him for information. 

"Look. Barton belonged to Hydra before us. They wanted him back so I sent him along –we don't need traitors. I wasn't lying Coulson. I'm still a good guy, I'm still S.H.I.E.L.D. but we don't need rats running amuck. Like Barton. He was a risk." 

"You had no right to decide that!" Phil snarled. "Where's your proof? Proof that he was Hydra before he was ours." 

"They put out a hit on him. A reclaiming hit. Plenty of cash to the one to turn him in," Holtz sneered. "I was interrogating a bounty hunter. He had the paper on him. I confiscated it. What do you know? All I had to do was make one phone call and hand Barton over at the nearest opportunity. Better to get him out before he could learn any secrets. I did us all a favor. And if you have a brain left, Coulson, you'll Code Eight that bastard next time you see him." 

"They could have been after one of our operatives," Phil argued. 

Granted, if Barton was Hydra beforehand… it might explain some of his skills. But that… What would Hydra gain by putting Barton into S.H.I.E.L.D? There were easier methods to sneak a double agent in. For instance, starting from the academy and entering the organization the traditional method. And if Clint was a Hydra agent, then he had done a pretty lacklustre job of it. He could have fought to see Phil's secret missions, pestered for more information. In general, Clint had teased and joked about it but he never made a move on taking it beyond that. He seemed almost content in the last few months with his situation. 

"And wouldn't Barton be the perfect plant for it?" 

"If they had a bounty on him, it was because he went rogue from them," Phil insisted. "Hydra would have recalled him otherwise. As far as I'm concerned, you're the one who betrayed a highly valuable asset to Hydra." 

Holtz jerked back like Phil had struck him. "You're kidding me. He was Hydra!" 

"Not everyone gets a glorious start like you," Phil growled waspishly. "You should have reported this to someone higher up, someone with the power to investigate this." 

Phil turned away, intending to leave. 

"I hope he dies," Holtz spat. "I hope that Swordsman kills him. _I_ did the right thing, Phillip. I've saved us from a traitor." 

It took more strength than Phil thought he possessed for him to walk out the door without hitting Holtz again. The man had a very small mind. Fury and the interrogators would sort him out. Phil checked his phone, grateful to find it bare of any messages. He walked towards his room, pushing the memory of his interactions with Holtz from his thoughts. He didn't need to be wasting energy on that man. Barton for all his quirks and annoyances was a good agent. A good man, even. If he was part of Hydra beforehand, maybe that explained a lot more about how he'd ended up living on the streets. Maybe that was the answer to his mysterious suppressors, the ones that would have ended up killing him. 

Phil walked into his room, shutting the door behind him. He dialled Fury's number from memory and waited for it to connect. 

"Do you know what time it is?" the speaker demanded. 

Phil smiled a little. "It's your time, isn't it?" he teased. 

"So you do remember me, then!" she preened. "But you can't talk to Daddy. He's _busy_. It's our day." 

"Kayla, I'm sorry. You know I hate doing this." 

"You wanna talk to him," she huffed. "If you wanna talk to him, then you have to promise to come over. Daddy's a boring old turd." 

Phil chuckled in spite of himself. "I'm sure your father is many things. Can I speak to him?" 

"I dunno, _can_ you?" 

"Kayla." Phil could just hear Nick's stern voice in the background. 

"Oh whatever," she announced, likely shoving the phone into Fury's hand if the clatter Phil could hear echoing in his skull was any indication. 

Kayla was at least fourteen, if Phil remembered correctly. Fury wasn't much of a family man, but he tried to give her one day a week where they could spend time together. Not that it ever went well. Kayla had her own ideas. Phil had known her since she was just a baby. His recent string of promotions however had been taking up more of his free time so he didn't get to pop in for a visit very often. Phil was pretty sure that he was the only one in the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. who even knew that Fury _had_ a daughter. And Phil only knew because he'd been there when Kayla was born. Kayla would often hand the phone to Fury when he was otherwise occupied and she knew the rules very well that phone calls from Phil were the only ones she could answer. And that was primarily because Fury couldn't stop her from answering when Phil phoned, whether or not it was work related. 

"Coulson?" inquired Fury, impatience coloring his tone. 

"Sorry for interrupting, sir." Phil inhaled softly. "Holtz sold Barton to Hydra. Apparently he had found a bounty on Barton's head. I'm working on two leads to track down Barton's current location." 

"That fucker," Fury hissed. "I'll deal with him. Personally. You got anything else I need to know about?" 

"No sir." He could let Fury know about Skye later. 

"Good," Fury said briskly, hanging up. 

Phil took the time to go down to the buffet, grabbing a plate of dinner. He didn't really pay attention what he served onto his plate but he was pleasantly surprised when he sat down to find he had a serving of every food group. It wasn't very often that happened. Normally he just ate whatever was convenient. Too often that ended up being a microwaveable dinner. Phil tapped his fingers against his water glass contemplatively as he ate. The questions he had wouldn't be answered until he found Jacques Duquesne or Clint Barton. Hopefully they weren't too far behind on catching him. 

The best case scenario? Skye would get a lead on either Duquesne or Barney Barton and either criminal would lead the path back to Clint. Clint, who had hopefully received proper medical attention, was waiting to be saved. Or about to escape on his own. Phil paused at that. In all honesty? He'd never encountered an Omega who had survived Hydra's machinations before. He'd met some of the Alphas and Betas, but never one of their prized Omegas. Phil had assumed it was because the Omegas simply didn't survive. He hadn't considered how unusual it was that during Captain Rogers' raid in Afghanistan, there wasn't a single Omega casualty on Hydra's side. That maybe it was because they kept their Omegas elsewhere, for some other purpose. It was well-known that Hydra collected and kidnapped Omegas in order to have a more complacent following. But in all the years Phil had been involved –he'd never seen an Omega Hydra operative. The worst case scenario would be finding Clint dead or under Hydra's thumb. With such a small team here, if Phil ended up in combat against Clint, he wasn't sure it would be much of an equal fight. 

Clint was an excellent operative. And if he had back-up with him, Phil doubted he would be able to deal with them. Barton on his own, maybe. He could even the odds between them, most likely. Barton was a formidable opponent and if he lost his free will or was coerced to fight back against Phil, Phil knew that it wouldn't be an easy fight by any stretch of the imagination. The ping of his cell phone going off was a welcome distraction as he pulled up the text from Leo. They had a location. Phil polished off the rest of his meal, set aside several euros for a tip as he headed out to the surveillance vehicle. Skye was still on screen, a mug of what was presumably a coffee in hand as she leaned back in her chair. Leo was hunched over the screens, two flashing marks on a map of Europe. 

"That's their locations?" he asked. 

"Barney Barton is still in Luxembourg, specifically the countryside near Wallendorf, and Duquesne appears to be there too," Leo said, gesturing to the map. "Wallendorf is a border town between Luxembourg and Germany, so I don't think it's much of a surprise that they're located so close to each other." 

Phil nodded decisively. "Thank you Leo, Skye." 

They both nodded. Phil got up and made the necessary phone calls, starting with Maria Hill requesting a strike team be sent in. Filling her in on the details was the longest part of the conversation but the fact that there was potential involvement from Hydra required one of their gifted strike teams. Ones with proper security clearance to be aware about the fact that Hydra may not have been destroyed in Afghanistan, as they initially suspected. He wasn't really sure what he was going to find, or who it was that would be sent. Hill agreed, but not before making a suggestion of her own. 

"Take Captain Rogers with you," she said. "He's getting bored sitting around in offices, he's finding himself work." 

Which made his next phone call surprisingly easier. He didn't want to have to split up the strike force to have someone track down Barney Barton. "Captain Rogers? I need you in Wallendorf, Luxembourg in ten hours. I need you to track down Barney Barton and bring him into S.H.I.E.L.D. for questioning." 

"I can do that," Steve said groggily, yawning. 

"Thank you," Phil said. "Assistant Director Hill is coordinating a strike team to back me up. I want you on Barney Barton; I'm not sure what you should expect from him but he is Hawkeye's brother." 

"I'll stay on guard," Steve promised. "Be there in ten hours, sir." 

Next, Phil had to coordinate between Hill and Leo, managing what surveillance they could get done in the limited amount of time they had. Phil camped out in the back, napping as they drove towards Luxembourg. When Phil woke up, it was dark out and they had been parked in Luxembourg for the last two hours. The strike force and Captain Rogers' were on their way from the airport, ready to search out a Hydra base. Leo had done as much as he could with the surveillance but it was limited due to the time constraints. 

The strike team pulled up within the next half hour. Captain Rogers exited the back of the van, saluted the men inside and set off to the surveillance van. Phil and he exchanged a brief hello as Phil made his way over to the strike team, grabbing some gear. Steve hopped out of the surveillance vehicle next, nodding at whatever Leo was saying. He pressed a comm unit into his ear and set off at a jog, no doubt in the direction of Barney Barton's signal. Phil threw on a Kevlar vest, made sure he had a few spare knives tucked into his boots and some extra ammo before he got in with the strike team. 

He fit his own comm device into his ear, as he went over the plan of action. The building they were going to be entering was over a bunker. No doubt they would be holding Clint somewhere down there. They needed to neutralize as many targets as they could but anyone they managed to take alive would be useful. However, all their planning seemed to fall apart at the seams as they exited the vehicle and found the Hydra base in disarray. Hydra was on high alert and seemed to be searching for someone, guns blazing. Phil took a steadying breath and they launched their own attack. 

"According to his cell phone signal, Duquesne should still be in the building," Leo commented. 

The fight was over quick, leaving the Hydra agents sprawled on the grassy countryside. Munro disarmed those that were still alive, as Phil and the rest of the strike team made their way downstairs. Leo's voice in his ear directed him towards Duquesne's room. Two of the strike team stuck close as Phil kicked the door to Duquesne's room open. Whatever he had been expecting, it was not to find a six foot man standing on unsteady feet, a short sword in hand. Phil aimed his gun at the man's chest. 

"Surrender or I'll shoot!" he barked. 

Duquesne laughed, shuffling backwards on unsteady feet until his back was pressed against the bunk beds. "It'll hurt you more than me," he slurred, waving his sword in Phil's direction. 

Jackson withdrew his firearm with a scoff. On his other side, Martin slowly mirrored his movements as Phil held his gun steady. Martin signalled to Jackson, and slowly they approached the drunk. It was almost pitiful to watch, really, as they effortlessly disarmed and handcuffed Duquesne. The Swordsman didn't put up a fight, instead, he laughed through the whole process. Phil led the two agents back up to safety, before checking in with the rest of the team. They had eliminated any threats and were currently investigating the underground bunker for any sign of Barton. Phil waited with Duquesne until Munro approached to swap out. The drunk was singing French lullabies under his breath, seemingly oblivious about the rest of the world. Phil hurried downstairs. 

"We've got something, alright," Garrett confirmed, voice heavy. 

"What's your location?" Phil asked. 

"Follow the hallway, take a right. First door you come to." 

It seemed to take forever to get there, wandering through the too-bright hallways before he found Garrett. Garrett stepped aside. "Agent Barton was definitely here sir. Quite recently too. But it looks like someone got him out first." 

There was a cot in the middle of the room, restraints for someone's arms and feet. There was also a blindfold laid on the pillow delicately. The entire room was bathed in bright light and ringed with mirrors. Phil hesitantly approached one, wincing at the blood splatter sprayed across them. Hopefully it wasn't Barton's blood. Phil set his hand on the glass, running his fingers along the side of the glass. It didn't feel like it was hung. Didn't look like it had been either. Phil glanced at the lights and then stepped back from the mirror; a good chance it was a two-way mirror. This was their interrogation room, then. 

"The blood isn't Barton's," Garrett commented. "It's the interrogator's I think. Her throat was slit." 

Whoever had done it was quite practiced. Phil walked around the cot to see the dead body, limp against the wall, blood pooling under her body. The mess was contained, all things considered. 

"That's not Barton's style," Phil admitted rather reluctantly, turning back to the cot. He reached out, grabbing onto one of the cuffs. "Barton's sloppier. And these cuffs? He didn't break out of them. Someone let him out." 

Garrett nodded in agreement. "At least we have the Swordsman in custody. Do you think it was his brother?" 

"Definitely not," Steve cut in. "I have him in custody." 

Phil released the cuff, staring at the bed worriedly. If Hydra didn't have Clint Barton, then who did? And why? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of action and pacing issues. This was a hard chapter to get through. I don't like mysteries and it felt like I was writing one. 
> 
> And thanks so much for all your amazing feedback -I love it! :D
> 
> Anyone wanna guess who saved Clint?


	6. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an official university graduate now. My first day off in a week and I just wrote six thousand words for you guys. In one sitting. Because I love you, and I love this story. Excuse me while I nurse my cramped hands.

Clint wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there. The interrogator had left only hours ago. He wasn't sure whether to be grateful or not that his torturer had been less thorough than usual. They probably didn't want to risk opening up any of his earlier wounds. But, torture was still torture. The blindfold was still secured around his head and his body was still trapped in restraints. The interrogator must have been under orders to not stress Clint too badly, because for however long he worked him over, Clint didn't give out an answer. The interrogator had treated his wounds before leaving. Trapped in the darkness, Clint forcibly kept his body relaxed as he listened for any sign of a potential threat. The door creaked briefly as someone opened it and Clint tensed. Clint listened for each footstep, mentally counting them until the walker came to a stop at the edge of Clint's bed.

"Well looks like you survived the torture," Barney said casually. "I didn't expect that from you."

Clint bristled. "Thought I said I didn't want to hear your voice again."

"I have short-term memory problems," Barney blustered on. "Seriously though. I expected you to start crying or begging. But no. You just kept on taking what they were doling out."

"I'm glad you're impressed," Clint snarled, jerking his arm against his restraint. He wanted to hit something. "Since you put me here, this is my daily!" he gestured awkwardly, trying to encompass the room. "And usually, there's more blood and pain involved. But it's Hydra. They don't want to damage their toys so long as they're still useable." If Barney weren't standing so close, Clint likely would have missed the sharp inhalation he gave. Clint snorted. "What, you don't like hearing the truth?"

"No, you deserve every minute of it," Barney said quietly, his voice oddly strangled.

"Go fuck yourself," Clint sighed, feeling the energy drain from him. It was hard to shake off the truth that rang in Barney's words, the conviction in how he pronounced each syllable.

"Listen to me," Barney said, leaning in suddenly. Clint could just about feel every breath his brother took. "There's going to be a woman. She is going to free you. Go with her –she's not Hydra." Barney pulled back. "I don't got the time for that, bro," Barney said effervescently, patting him on the chest. Clint grunted in pain. "I've got an important job to do. So you sit still and we can catch up some more when I get back."

"Go to hell," Clint spat.

Six steps, then four. A door creaked open and slammed shut, leaving Clint in silence again. What game was Barney playing at? Clint knew better than to get his hopes up. He wasn't getting out of here. No one was going to come and save him. Things didn't work out that way. Was he trying to get Clint's hopes up just so he could dash them? Clint sighed. It didn't really matter. No one was going to save him. Not Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. Definitely not Barney Barton, who'd thrown him in here in the first place. If Bucky knew he was in here… it was a toss-up on whether or not Bucky would keep to his private safe haven in New York or not. Clint actually hoped he would. Bucky deserved some peace of mind, he didn't need to come charging in just for Clint. Not when he would be risking so much more by being captured. So no, there was no one coming to save him. Phil had probably already been fed some bogus lie from Holtz and was likely on a shoot-to-kill mission. For all that he hadn't been at S.H.I.E.L.D. very long Clint knew perfectly well what their feelings towards traitors were. Bloodthirsty was an adequate description.

Clint was dozing off when he heard the alarm blare through the building. He tried to sit up, biting back a groan of pain when the restraints slammed him back onto the bed, his chest aching in response. Despite the pain clouding his mind, he could recognize the alarm was announcing an intruder. Odd. He strained to hear; the distant sound of footsteps running down a corridor was all he could hear. And then his door was opened and he could just pick out the sound of gunfire before the loud creaking door shut, cutting off the sound. Clint tensed up.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

"Shut up," hissed the speaker, slamming down a kit of tools. He could hear the rattle of metal objects. "Ronin. Tell me who's out there."

"How am I supposed to know?" Clint bitched. "I'm blindfolded and tied up. You're the one who was just out there, you tell me."

The speaker huffed. Clint could hear fabric falling open and then more metal clanking together. "They're headed this way. Tell me, now."

"I told you, I don't know!" The slap shouldn't have been unexpected, yet it was. Clint bit back a groan as blood flooded his mouth.

"Wrong answer. We don't have any other prisoners here. Who is it?"

"Fuck you." Clint turned his head, spitting in the approximation of where the speaker was located.

The second slap was expected, however Clint didn't hear the door creak open. And judging by the way, the speaker resumed preparing their instruments, they had not heard the door open either. As such, Clint startled badly when he heard the speaker's body topple to the ground with no warning. He froze, straining to hear anything. But there wasn't a sound out of place.

"I'm removing the blindfold," she said, her husky voice next to his ear. "Don't freak out."

A redheaded angel had come to save him. Clint squinted against the bright light at her. "Who are you?" It was hard to make out any of her features after being blindfolded for so long.

"You've met me before," she said enigmatically, unlocking the restraints.

Clint spared a moment to take in his surroundings. The interrogation room resembled a medical room more than anything else. It was white, except for where the last visitor was lying on the ground, blood pooling around her. He gratefully hopped off the cot, wincing in pain as the movement jarred his leg.

"You're not going to be able to move fast," she observed flatly. "Put your arm around my neck."

"Who are you?" Clint asked again, even as he put his arm over her shoulders.

She shot him a glare and for that moment she seemed impossibly familiar. In the next, Clint was struggling to keep up with her as she hauled him out. There were at least twenty dead Hydra agents on the floor, as they made their way up the stairs. It was the hardest part of the journey as he felt his stiches strain and his every muscle protest the movement. But his –rescuer? –didn't give him a chance to rest. Until there were two Hydra agents racing down the stairs, guns drawn. At which point she promptly shoved him towards the railing and met the agents head-on. She slammed a small knife into the first one's throat before leaping onto the second one, her legs around his throat. Within seconds, the second Hydra agent was collapsing and she nimbly leapt aside.

"I don't like being double-crossed," she said, putting his arm over her shoulders again. "And I don't like owing people."

"Didn't know you owed me anything," Clint said carefully, gauging her reaction.

"I don't," she said flatly. "I owe someone else." She grimaced at that, hauling him into fresh air.

It was dark outside. Clint took a moment to marvel at that, as he limped along with her. "Where are you taking me?" he asked cautiously.

"To Echternach. Your friends are staying there."

"Friends?" Clint asked guardedly. "You mean S.H.I.E.L.D? They sold me out."

"Maybe I meant your brother," she snipped.

"He's only one person and if you're taking me to see him, just leave me here to die." Clint processed the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He considered taking them back, but he was too angry at Barney to care.

Her only response was to arch an eyebrow threateningly. "Your brother called in the favor," she said, adjusting his hold on her. "And so did an old friend. Now, walk like Ronin. It's going to take a few hours to get to Echternach."

Barney had orchestrated this? Called in a favor? That was hard to believe. When had Barney ever done something for him? Never. Barney probably had an ulterior motive. He always did. Barney was a lot of things, but regretful was not a word that could be attributed to him. Clint entertained a moment, just a moment, of his brother being genuinely apologetic. Being remorseful, doing all of this to earn Clint's forgiveness. But even that didn't make sense. Clint didn't have anything to give Barney, to provide him with. Then why would Barney have arranged to get Clint free? What was the point of that? Fuck Barney for putting Clint in this situation. Where was he over the last six years? Where was his guilt, his remorse for selling Clint? Clint had waited for years for his big brother to come and save him. And Barney never did come. And some mistakes could never be forgiven, never be taken back.

They walked for several hours before she allowed him a break, and that was only at his insistence that he would rip stitches if they kept up their current pace. Clint sat down slowly, stretching his injured leg out carefully. She wasn't very talkative. But there was something about her that was familiar. In the dim light of morning it was easier to examine her. He had long since adjusted to the light outside, but being hauled along by her had made it difficult to see her face past the curtain of hair. Now he could see her features.

"Nadine?" he asked, voice strangled.

She turned to him, one eyebrow arched. "Took you long enough."

Clint frowned, actually looking at her this time. "Bucky wouldn't have sent you out here to save me."

"Not if we were actually dating," she agreed. "He made an excellent cover, though."

Clint tensed, suddenly wishing he had a weapon on him. "Why?"

"Because I needed information and he needed to stay low," she said and there was something like regret in her voice. "He knew he was just a cover."

And suddenly, it clicked into place. A name he had heard whispers of, like those who even invoked the name were afraid of what consequence might befall them. And a project that the Winter Soldier had belonged to several years before Clint ever met him. "The Black Widow," Clint whispered, watching her.

She shrugged her shoulders easily. "I'm surprised it took you so long to recognize me. It's only one of my names though."

"The Winter Soldier wasn't allowed to talk about it," Clint said warily. "The rest were just ghost stories."

She sat down, folding her legs together. "And that was when I worked for them."

Clint nodded slowly, exhaling evenly. "Did Bucky call in the second favor?"

"When he realized you'd been taken. Yes."

"Why didn't he come himself then?" Clint asked guardedly.

Nadine shot him an un-amused look. "His Heat just ended. For his own safety, I left him behind. Better to be safe." She paused for a moment. "I may have had to knock him out first…"

Clint nodded slowly, relieved. Bucky's Heats had him hard in the past, since the suppressants wore off. Bucky was pretty mute on the subject and Clint hadn't wanted to press. It wasn't a fun topic by any means –Bucky was alive, appeared to be in good shape, that was all that Clint really cared about. "And Barney?"

"Someone I met a few years back. He got me out of a tricky situation." She wrinkled her nose at that.

"Okay. So you're taking me back to see Bucky then?"

"That's the plan."

"How did you get here so quick? How did you even hear about it in the States?" How long was I gone, Clint really wanted to know.

"Hydra has a big mouth," Nadine answered, getting to her feet. "They were bragging about the deal before you'd even been captured."

"Well that's reassuring," Clint muttered, as he got to his feet.

Nadine flashed him an amused smile, before putting his arm over her shoulders and practically dragged him onwards.

"How are you so strong?" Clint asked, not a little intimidated.

"I work out," she answered flatly.

Not that it was impossible for a woman to be stronger than him, for one to be capable of hauling so far with him halfway in a fireman's carry, but it was odd. Clint was pure muscle. He'd spent nearly ten years in combat ready condition and it showed. He was by no means light. And Nadine was half a foot shorter than he. Yet with all his weight, she didn't seem to be slowed or inconvenienced in the slightest. Echternach was a pretty small town, situated in a green valley. It was small and quaint, most of the buildings red brick and classic. All his time working for Hydra, and Clint had never really had a chance to appreciate the architectural differences that European builders used. It was all too possible that he was out of his mind, trying to do anything but focus on the pain.

By the time they reached Nadine and Bucky's safe house, Clint was exhausted. Some of his wounds had started to bleed again, but they had no medical supplies with them. He didn't pay much attention as Nadine opened the door and shuffled inside with Clint. However, much of his exhaustion seemed to melt away as soon as he saw Bucky. The pain was still there, but it was distant. Nadine practically dragged Clint to the table, helping him sit down. Clint winced in pain, his hand going to his chest where it was damp.

"At least you made it one piece," Bucky quipped, leaning forward in concern.

"Miracle of miracles," Clint grunted.

Nadine steadied him. "I'll see what med supplies we have. There's probably something for the pain at least."

Nadine bustled out of the room.

"You don't look too beat up for a guy fresh from torture camp," Bucky teased, but there was worry in his eyes.

"They didn't wanna kill me by accident," Clint admitted, slowly pulling his shirt up to reveal the nasty stitches. Blood was oozing around them.

Nadine shoved some gauze into his hand as she walked by, a bottle of pills in her hand. She popped two out. "It's only because you look like you'd die otherwise," she said blithely as she handed a glass of water over, the pills next to them. "They'll help you relax."

Clint eyed them, cleaning up the blood as best he could. It didn't look like any of the stitches had been broken. Just that the wound was clearly agitated. "Thanks." He paused, glancing between Nadine and Bucky. "And I'm really grateful you got me out of there. But why did you risk it?"

Bucky broke eye contact first, staring at the wall to his right. His metal fingers drummed against the table. "Because I don't want to run from Hydra for the rest of my life."

Clint grabbed the pills, rolling them over in his hand. "What are you suggesting then?" He lifted the glass up, swallowing the pills down.

"That we destroy every Hydra cell we know about and whatever cells they'll give up to Natalia."

"Natasha," she corrected, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Her eyes were on them both. "I am no longer their puppet."

The Black Widow program was rumored to be many things. Their trainees, now experts, were trained for every conceivable situation. What answers they couldn't gain from seduction, they could get through torture. Despite her relaxed posture, Clint would be willing to bet that with just a second's notice, she would be the first of them ready to fight. Her training was different, more specialized and far longer than Clint's had ever been. Omegas like Clint had been taught to fear the very name of the Black Widow program. Those girls could wrap a man around her finger and break him in two with just a smile –and as their prey lay dying, they could shed a tear and convince anyone who saw them that they had been lifelong friends.

For all the similarities between him and the Black Widow –orphaned, sold out and raised by Hydra –Clint didn't think it would amount to much.

Clint glanced between them. "You're a team of two strong. I can't use a bow in this shape."

Bucky grinned, and there was something dark to it. "I bet you could use a sword though. Even a gun, if it really came down to it. Or did you get rusty in S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"I can't walk or stand all too well," Clint admitted reluctantly.

"Be the rear guard," Nadine –Natasha? –corrected smoothly. "Use a gun, cover our backs."

Clint looked between them, at the determination in their eyes. He hated Hydra as much as they did. And nothing would stop him from getting some revenge of his own. Bucky wouldn't leave him behind if he got captured. And although he didn't know Nadine –Natasha? –all that well, Bucky clearly trusted her. Once upon a time, Clint could remember an older Omega trainee telling him to never trust the Winter Soldier that the Winter Soldier was more machine than man. Bucky's trust meant a lot.

"So what do I call you then?" he asked the redhead. "Natasha? Natalia? Nat?"

She raised one delicate brow and Clint could have sworn his balls retracted in fear at her glare. "Natasha," she corrected, twirling a knife across her knuckles effortlessly.

"Yes ma'am," he replied, giving her a little salute. (She didn't appear amused, but her knife disappeared. Clint didn't even want to think about where it had come from.)

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. "I'll get you some proper clothes, let you eat. We can head out tomorrow."

"Sounds good," Clint agreed softly, watching Bucky.

More than a year ago and Clint had been half convinced that Bucky was going to die. It was something of a relief to see him mobile and combat ready. But in the same breath, it was nearly as heartbreaking. The Winter Soldier was a fighter, but for the last two years, Bucky had been a civilian. Homeless, perhaps, but prepared to fight. Clint had been living like that for a year, too before he went to S.H.I.E.L.D. where he had seen combat again. It was different though. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. meant there was always an extraction team, meant that someone would always come for him. Kind of like how he knew Bucky would support him no matter what.

But this mission would be different. This was going to be revenge. And for everything Hydra had put them through, it deserved to burn down. Until there wasn't a single head left. Clint curled his hand into a fist –their revenge would be bloody; merciless and swift. Ronin was known for his brutality to those that deserved it most of all; Hawkeye was known for never killing an innocent. Clint relaxed his hand slowly. He would protect his friends. The Black Widow was infamous in how unknown she was, how she was more myth than fact –but she always got her target and plenty of cash. At least, those were the whispers. The Winter Soldier was known for always getting his target, no matter the cost. Clint wasn't sure what reputation Bucky Barnes the killer would leave behind, but it had to be better than the Winter Soldier's. Clint levered himself to his feet at Bucky's return.

"I got you your old outfit," Bucky admitted, setting it on the table. "Here are some clean clothes that should last you."

Clint accepted them, stuffing them under his arm so they wouldn't get dried blood on them. "Thanks. I have to say I haven't missed that thing." He gestured to the yellow-trimmed black robes.

"I know the feeling," Bucky admitted softly. "But someone has to stop Hydra."

"We're three people," Clint argued, feeling unusually helpless. "One of us is nearly crippled."

"We're three professionals," Natasha interjected. "Between us, our kill list could easily rival fucking Howard Stark's."

Silence settled over them, uneasy and tense. Clint grabbed his old uniform and headed to what he assumed was a spare room. He was grateful to be proven right, as he slammed the door behind him. It wasn't different for Natasha, maybe. But there were too many kills that Clint regretted. He ran a hand over his face, gingerly sinking down onto the air mattress. Maybe they did have more kills than Howard Stark, but too many of those were made without their consent. Clint –Ronin –Ronin had been given orders, to march into a church and not let anyone walk out. It was one of the worst things he'd ever done and he sometimes still had nightmares about it. Everyone there was innocent. But Hydra needed to leave a message for the mob boss in the area –nobody could fuck with Hydra and get away with it. The mobster's wife and kid were in the front pew. Clint could have killed them long distance, clean shots. But they dressed him up, shoved a sword into his hand and marched him into that building. It was either him or them. And goddammit, a man could only withstand torture for so long before he cracked. There were forty attendees, twenty-two of which were children. Victims Clint had murdered because of his orders, in God's sacred domain. He'd never had much faith before, if any, but that was a defining moment. He didn't deserve forgiveness and he would never ask for any.

Clint could barely look at a church anymore. He'd been on the run once, in New York, trying to shake some pursuers when he saw a church. He tried to hide, but the threatening panic attack had left him hiding in a dumpster bin instead. He stayed there nearly the whole night until Bucky came looking and found him. The story about the church wasn't all that special. Bucky had dozens of memories like that, memories that weren't even his. He'd been stripped from the Winter Soldier, a backseat passenger to a hell entirely unlike Clint's. And it wouldn't surprise him if the same was true for Natasha. But to have it put so bluntly was disconcerting and upsetting. Clint inhaled slowly, absently looking over the clothes Bucky had brought him. A pair of sweatpants, probably to sleep in, jeans and a t-shirt next to his armor. Clint changed into the sweatpants in relief and shuffled out into the kitchen.

Bucky was standing at the stove, cooking. Natasha was seated in Bucky's place at the table. Clint sat down across from her slowly, mindful of his wounds. As Natasha and Bucky chattered on easily about their plans for what they would do tomorrow when they hit the first Hydra base, Clint realized something. He had changed. In his year at S.H.I.E.L.D. away from all of this, he had learned strategy and tactics. Also, somewhere along the way, he'd picked up Phil Coulson's sense of morality and ethics. Coulson was the type of guy that didn't want to go into a situation guns blazing; he wanted to save the innocents, lock up the guilty. He didn't baulk when he had to kill the bad guy, but there was always just a sense about him. That he didn't like killing. He wanted to get the baddie of the week in custody, have him be interrogated so they could use his information to save more people. And the prisoners Coulson took, not all of them were always evil. Sometimes, it was the only option they had left.

But S.H.I.E.L.D. had sold him out. Betrayed him to Hydra. And Coulson hadn't fucking come, had he? Maybe he was being irrational but… Hydra deserved everything it was going to get. And even though he was injured, Clint was going to give it his all tomorrow. Not everyone had to be bad, but that didn't mean they were all good either. They had wanted a soldier. Well, they'd created a monster instead. And that? That wasn't on Clint. It was on the Hydra operatives. They wanted a monster? Well they could have a taste of one tomorrow.

"I want my sword," Clint announced.

Bucky turned to face him, grinning darkly. "You're in?"

"Fuck yeah," he said emphatically.

Phil 

It was a long wait until morning. Barney was unconscious when Steve brought him and they would get no answers out of Duquesne so long as he was drunk. The Hydra base was secured and there was no footage or sign of Clint Barton anywhere outside of that interrogation room. It was like he had simply vanished. And although it wasn't entirely impossible to happen, it was unlikely. There would be signs, evidence of some kind left behind. So far the only thing they had was the few dead bodies. Most of which were contaminated and disturbed when the strike team charged in. Not that they had any other option than to wait for Duquesne to sober up or Barney to wake.

Skye couldn't even dig up a lead on Clint's whereabouts but they had sent what data they could find in the bunker to her. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had arrived at Skye's location and was there making sure she was clean, monitoring her situation and supervising her work. She didn't seem bothered by it; mostly she appeared tired. Phil took that as his cue to settle down somewhere for the night. Strike teams were always prepared for almost any circumstance, so although it wasn't ideal they had fashioned two interrogation rooms together while they waited for S.H.I.E.L.D. to send a quinjet they could use to transport the suspects back to a more secure location. Until then, there were tents and sleeping bags set up for exhausted agents to use. Phil headed into the nearest available tent, and gratefully set to work on thinking up a strategy he could employ to break Duquesne. Phil wasn't sure what he would have to do to get Barney to break, but he was hopeful it would be easier than interrogating Duquesne. Phil winced internally; it wasn't an interrogation exactly. If he could get nothing from them, they would be sent to the Interrogators' for torture.

Phil started going over what paperwork and information he had on Barney. There was very little available, even with the FBI's cooperation on the matter. Their records did little to help fill in the missing years where the Barton brothers had left their foster home. What had happened to them after that? Phil was searching through the records when he heard running footsteps. Glancing out the tent flap, he spotted a young agent running towards his tent against the backdrop of the dawn sky. Of course he'd been up all night. His internal clock was still screwed up from all of the country hopping he'd been doing; he didn't actually feel like he'd been up all night.

One of the strike team members hurried over and Phil stopped what he was doing. "Yes?" he queried.

"Barney Barton is awake, sir. He's asking for you."

Phil blinked in surprise. "For me?"

"By name, sir," the agent agreed.

Well, that was definitely interesting. "Thank you, Agent. I'll be there shortly."

The agent nodded and took off at a run. Phil skimmed through the records again. Nothing new stood out to him. Phil gathered up the papers he had, clipping them to a clipboard. It was always good to look official –whether the suspect was an agent trained in these tactics or not, basic intimidation was always a good starting point. And appearances were an important part of that. Phil adjusted his tie slightly, smoothing his hands over his suit to make sure it was as fitting as it could be. He combed his hair back into order before he walked out and straight to the kitchen. There were a few agents milling around, each nursing a cup of coffee or tea as they chatted. Phil grabbed the largest mug he could find, filling it with black coffee. He added a teaspoon and a half of sugar before heading to the observation room. Garrett was already there, his eyes on Barney.

"He asked for me by name?" Phil asked idly as he stopped beside Garrett, taking a sip of his coffee.

Through the window, Phil could see Barney Barton sitting at the table. At a glance, Barney didn't look much like Clint. But Barney was sitting at the table, partially slouched as he was handcuffed to the table, resting his head on his hand. He wasn't overtly paying attention, his eyes loosely focused on the door. But he was wearing a familiar expression. Despite his red hair, slim eyes and the lines under them, he was definitely Clint's brother. Barney held himself the same way Clint did; distrust, suspicion and wariness lined his body.

"Yeah. I don't know how he knows of you, but it was the first thing he asked when he came around."

Phil frowned, taking a long drink of his coffee. Barney shifted a little, sighing loudly as he leaned more heavily on his hand, eyes drooping shut. Clint had refused to discuss his brother, had never mentioned him beyond a passing remark that he left his brother when he was fifteen. And both of them had apparently known where the other was, but refused to engage. So what was Barney doing here now? Phil set his coffee down.

"Has he asked for anything else?"

"Not since he woke up," Garrett admitted.

Phil nodded his thanks, picked his coffee cup up and walked down to the interrogation room. It was a standard set-up. Two chairs divided by a table that was bolted to the floor. The suspect was handcuffed to the table so as to prevent him from being capable of injuring the agent interrogating him. There was a camera on that showed the whole room, angled just so that it would be able to see over Phil's shoulder. Phil opened the door, balancing his coffee carefully as he walked in and sat down across from Barney. Barney's eyes were open and alert as soon as the door had opened. Barney sniffed subtlety, likely trying to figure out what was in Phil's cup.

"You Coulson?" Barney grunted, peering at him suspiciously.

Phil set his cup down, out of Barney's reach, as he casually rearranged his papers. He skimmed the top papers, locating Barney's birth date. Just what he needed. Surprisingly, Barney was twenty-four years old. In a few more weeks he'd be twenty-five. If Phil had to guess, he would've put Barney closer to his own age. Twenty-eight or twenty-nine; not twenty-four. Then again Clint always looked older too, perhaps due to his life experiences. Maybe it was the same story for Barney.

"Yes," Phil said, interrupting as Barney was about to speak. He glanced at the other man slowly, unimpressed, and just fast enough to catch the fury in Barney's sharp blue eyes. "I am Agent Coulson."

Barney sat back in his seat, his attention on Phil. "You're the one who got my bro out of that gutter?"

Phil shrugged carefully. "More or less."

"And now you've lost him," Barney growled. "First to Duquesne –after you sold him out, and now to who-knows-who. He has a lot of enemies _Coulson,_ in case you didn't know."

Phil didn't let Barney's acidic tone get to him. "And the one who sold him out is being dealt with. He has been sent to our choice Interrogator who will be dissuading him from his current line of work as well as from repeating that incident again."

"And what are you going to do if Hydra has him?" Barney demanded.

Phil smiled blandly. "I don't think that's very likely Mr. Barton, seeing as how it was only Hydra operatives who died."

Barney rolled his lips together. "It'll be worse for him if it's one of Hydra's enemies."

"I'm sure it will," Phil agreed. "But for now, we don't have many leads on your brother. But one of them, is you. What are you doing in France, Mr. Barton?"

"It's Agent," Barney snapped. "And it's a matter of security. I can't disclose."

"Oh, you can't?" Phil asked. "That's interesting. Because I talked to SSA Kendall. And she said there was no reason for you to be in _France_."

Barney sighed, moving his arm towards his face. He glared at the chain when it was pulled taunt short of being able to reach his face. Barney rolled his neck, his bangs dancing across his forehead. They weren't long enough to cover his eyes, just enough to touch his eyebrows. "I overheard someone discussing Duquesne," he said, staring at Coulson challengingly. "That he was meeting with a S.H.I.E.L.D. informant about one of Hydra's assets. And I thought to myself 'Barney, who could they be talking about?' and I remembered when my boss called me in to ask about my little brother. Apparently there'd been an op in Italy and my boss was pretty impressed. He wanted to know if I could convince Clint to join the FBI.

"And I told him, there was no way Clint would join if he knew I was working for the FBI. We had a falling out a few years back, you see? So there I was, sitting in this bar, listening to this asshole blab on and on about this old asset. And I decided that I needed to do something about it. I shook hands, paid for a few beers and preached about the world needing a little more control. About how the world needs order and justice and less of these Captain America wannabes, you know. So they offered me a job and I signed myself up. And what do you know?" Barney twirled his hand in the air absently, likely an old habit. It resembled a cheap coin trick, where the performer would roll a coin across their knuckles. "Sure as shit, few months later, they have everything set up for how they'll bring Clint in. But they want me on the op. Just as back-up. So no. I'm not on a mission in France for the FBI. But I am on one to save my goddamned brother!"

"You knew your brother was…employed by Hydra before all this?" Phil asked incredulously. "But you did nothing to help him? Even knowing he was an Omega?"

Barney shut down. He flicked his eyes away, staring at the wall past Phil. "Yeah, I knew," he said tightly. "And there was nothing I could do for him."

"Bullshit. You joined the army before joining the FBI. You received training."

Barney snorted his eyes on Phil. "Yeah, on how to shoot a gun. They don't teach you strategy. And what good is a few hours of training compared to three years of it? There wasn't even a record of Clint Barton when I looked for him. There were a lot of whispers about new players for Hydra; some of the best assassins they'd ever seen come out of the Red Room. The Black Widows, the Winter Soldier, Ronin, the Swordsman –hell, even the Witch and the Spider. All of them Omegas, all of them trained killers."

"And you didn't contact him when he came to S.H.I.E.L.D. Why should I believe that you came here to save your brother?"

Barney stiffened. "I already got him out of here, okay. Just let me go. I've done what I came here for."

Phil arched a brow. "So you claim. Yet you've told me that you are a member of Hydra, that you pledged to them and betrayed the FBI. Why, exactly, should I believe you?"

"Clint ain't here, is he?" Barney barked. "He got out. I had a friend help."

Phil raised both brows, staring at Barney disbelievingly.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know about Hydra –about Duquesne. Just don't give me to the Interrogators, or throw me in jail. I did the right thing."

Phil shuffled through his papers, to the blank ones he always kept at the end. He unclipped his pen. "Tell me everything you know and we can go from there," he offered.

"Duquesne worked for Carson's –it was a travelling circus. Usually circuited the Mid-West but they did the odd show on the East Coast and West Coast. Duquesne worked with Buck Chisholm, they had a duo act. Swords and bows –called themselves Swordsman and Trick Shot." Barney leaned forward, scrubbing his hand through his hair in agitation. "Clint and I ran from the last foster placement and right into the circus. I got us in; I could be a helping hand. Clint would have to pull his own weight or he'd get dropped."

Barney paused, sighing heavily. "Clint was supposed to be helping me, but he ended up in the big top. Picked up a bow that was nearly the same size as him and put an arrow square through the bulls-eye on his first try. It was luck, of course, but Buck saw him. Buck took him on as an apprentice, trained him up as a sharpshooter to join the show. Buck started to work less with Duquesne, then. More time with Clint. It left Duquesne having to do labor, like me. He taught me a little here and there, gave me a backstage view to one of Clint's performances.

"Duquesne liked to gamble. And Buck always liked to make money. With less work to do, Duquesne drank and gambled more. Got himself into a big debt with Buck." Barney curled a finger around the chain of his handcuff. "Duquesne gets stupid mad when he's been drinking, when he's hungover. He liked me fine. He was always pissed at Clint though. One day he got a dumbass idea in his head –I, I thought he was joking. Turns out he wasn't. He attacked Clint, nearly cut his hand clean off but Buck stopped him in time. Found out he was piss-ass drunk. Buck liked to dabble where he shouldn't and he had a buddy. Called him up and arranged to sell Duquesne at the next stop-over.

"Duquesne was a mean drunk, an alcoholic and a gambler with a temper to boot. Clint didn't spend much time with him. I don't even know if he remembers when Duquesne attacked him –he was sick." Barney sighed again. "The last I saw of Jacques Duquesne, he was chained up and dragged into a Hydra car. I never saw him again. But I know he went to work for Hydra, that he was some kind of a mentor to the Omegas, teaching swordsmanship before they sent him out to kill."

Phil nodded, jotting down a few notes. He would have to watch the footage again and really process what Barney was saying. "And Hydra?"

So Barney shared everything he knew about Hydra. Where some bases were located, who was in charge and their protocols. He talked about their hard hitting players –the Black Widows –and who hadn't heard of them? – As well as Ronin and the Winter Soldier, who were rumored to be missing; the Spider, which Barney admitted he was sceptical about, much like the Witch. It was hard to imagine a human running on spider webs or a human capable of telekinesis. Neither of which, Phil was aware, were really impossible. He'd seen stranger. Like the machine Stark had created to escape Afghanistan or the arc reactor he was using to keep himself alive. And there were others long before Stark and arguably stranger in their powers and abilities if not in their personalities. Barney also shared what he knew about Duquesne and Holtz's deal. Holtz had been the one to contact Hydra, and Duquesne was the one who answered it. Reluctantly, Barney shared his involvement with the fight.

"I don't know who Clint was, when he was with Hydra. I just know he wasn't someone I could save," Barney finished solemnly. "But I swear I got him out. He's in good hands. He'll get in touch when he can."

At least Clint was alive, Phil thought as he left the room. The decision to release Barney wasn't solely Phil's. They would have to get in contact with SSA Kendall and see what she had to say about it. Garrett was already on the phone, likely trying to establish that contact with her as Phil passed him. Garrett waved a hand at him impatiently, holding out a piece of paper. Balancing his cup carefully, Phil grabbed the note and unfolded it. Duquesne was awake, in a foul mood, and ready to talk to whoever was willing to listen. Phil nodded his thanks to Garrett before setting his cup down and heading to Duquesne's room. Better to get it all over and done with. The sooner the better.

Apparently they'd already had some trouble with Duquesne, Phil noted. Duquesne's chain was pulled taut, and Clint could tell from the way he was struggling that his feet were spread apart and cuffed to the table legs. There would be no escaping from that until a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was ready to release him. Stopping outside his room, Phil re-organized his papers so that Duquesne's information was on top. Phil took a deep breath, recalling the details that Barney had shared. It might be the most valuable information he would get to use against Duquesne. Phil opened the door and strode inside, sitting down across from the Swordsman nonchalantly.

"Who the fuck are you?" Duquesne demanded, glaring at Phil.

"I am Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Duquesne snorted. "And what do you want with me?"

"I want information."

"And what do I get if I give you this information?"

"A reduced prison sentence, less time spent with the Interrogators. Depends on what information you're willing to share, Jacques."

The man grunted. "Been ages since anyone called me that." He paused, tapping his thumb against the table. "Don't call me it again."

"Are you going to cooperate?" Phil pressed.

Duquesne scoffed, turning away from him. "Ask what you want."

"Tell me about Clint Barton."

Duquesne glanced at him, surprise and delight on his face. "Clinton? What do you want to know about him?"

Phil sat up straighter, thumbing the edge of his papers. "I know what his records say. I want to know what actually went on."

Duquesne grinned, "Trust me, you don't want to know that Agent. You might never be able to look that boy in the eye again."

Phil arched a brow at him. "I think I could manage that."

It was a show of power, one that Phil refused to fall prey to. He had heard of Ronin before, the dark tales about his brutality to those who most deserved it. But there was still a long line of dead victims. Mostly, they could have been described as mercy killings. Phil had responded to some of those scenes. S.H.I.E.L.D. had heard of Ronin before, had seen his work up close and personal. Duquesne made sure to share every story he knew about Ronin, about every heinous and vile act that had ever been committed. But if there was one thing Phil knew, it was how Hydra treated their Omegas. Clint was half dead when they had him in their custody. The suppressants that Hydra had forced on him had nearly killed him. He was cannon fodder, for all that he was a valued assassin to their cause. Clint Barton was not Ronin the killer. Clint Barton was just Clint Barton.

Phil kept his expression bland and uninterested, only partially listening to the tale of horror that Duquesne wrung out. "I am familiar with his kill list," Phil stated once Duquesne had finished.

Duquesne scowled at him, clearly unsure of how to handle Phil's unexpected reaction. "I trained him," he said. "With the Winter Soldier."

"James Barnes?" Phil inquired, writing it down at Duquesne's nod. He knew more about Ronin than he did the Winter Soldier; Ronin was a nightmare of darkness on his own. He had been spotted in public before. The Winter Soldier however, was just a shadow who left dead behind. No one had seen him before.

"We taught him how to fight, how to kill. How to lose to his baser instincts."

"And what of his education?" Phil asked, already dreading the answer.

"That was it –what good's a high school education for an assassin?" Duquesne laughed. "It ain't good for shit, that's what."

"He was just a kid," Phil argued, appalled.

"He was a fuckin' teenager. Kid didn't need school to know how to kill. We drilled it into his head. He was sixteen when he put on those robes willingly, walked into that church and killed all those people. So don't you get your panties in a twist there. He knew what he was doing."

Clint was sixteen. Phil inhaled slowly, held it for a moment before carefully releasing it so as to not give away his reaction. When Phil was sixteen, he was in school, dreaming about joining the army and taking after his father. He was studying for exams. He knew nothing of death except for the kind that had stolen over his grandfather and taken him quietly. Phil had been dating his first girlfriend around that time, trying to figure out who and what he liked. He still went grocery shopping with his parents, read every Captain America comic he could get his hands on. His world was small, and he hadn't even realized it. No sixteen year old, indoctrinated in a world of blood and hate could understand the consequences. Or if they could, there was such a fear that they obeyed without question.

"Tell me about Holtz," Phil prompted, redirecting the conversation. No wonder Clint had struggled so much in the beginning.

"You know how we got him to do it?" Duquesne asked, grinning. "We'd send him to the Interrogators when he didn't listen. He'd always come home, pale and shaky and I'd send him back to work. Until he listened, until he broke and agreed. He pulled the robes on himself. I think it took him about an hour to pull 'em on, he was in so much pain. They'd really done a number on him that time –"

Phil pushed out of his chair and rose to his feet, the scraping of wood against concrete echoing in the room. "I think that will be all," he said loudly, turning to leave.

"But they just pushed him to the limit where he might break, no permanent scars, nothing," Duquesne continued. "I always wished I could have their finesse!"

Phil shut the door behind him, grimacing. Of course Clint wouldn't have shared that kind of a dark past. Phil honestly wasn't sure what Fury would do, if he had known when Clint joined up. If he had told Fury they had Ronin in their custody. It was a toss-up on whether the recruit would have been pushed or if they would have just executed him neatly. Thinking about Clint, Phil almost wanted to say that the execution would have been kinder. He hadn't known what they wanted. His life until S.H.I.E.L.D. must have solely existed on the principle of violence when he failed. Phil closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

But Clint had adapted, had recovered impossibly well considering his past. Maybe it was time to consider how to save the Omegas in Hydra's control. No one had really considered it; the Omegas were too violent, too savage to be saved. They always died before S.H.I.E.L.D. could do anything for them. But Clint must have gotten away at some point, fought for his freedom. It was possible that it was due to Clint's stubbornness. And after all this, after Clint had survived so much, Phil had let him get assigned to Holtz. Had let Holtz sell him right back to the people Clint had escaped from. It wasn't something Phil had thought about, had even considered. No one ever escaped from Hydra. He had thought Clint was running from a brother that had tried to marry him off.

Phil returned to Barney's room. Someone had un-cuffed one of his hands, and Barney was taking a long drink of water. He seemed surprised to see Phil, as he set his paper cup back down. "What?"

"Where is Clint now?" Phil asked.

"I don't know. I called in a favor." Barney shrugged. "If you guys are as good as I've heard he'll call you when he's ready."

But Holtz had sold him out. And as far as Clint could be concerned, he might even believe that Phil had something to do with it. Phil left the room absently heading back to his own tent. He needed to sleep and process what was going on. And then he would have to call Director Fury and update him on the situation with Clint. The tent he had claimed earlier was still set up and Phil stepped inside gratefully, closing the curtains. Garrett would be able to review the footage, to know that no deal had been reached with Duquesne. Personally, Phil hoped he would never have to run into the man again. And after watching that recording, Garrett would know about Clint's previous identity. There would be no hiding it from Fury. There could be nothing left but to argue for Clint's life. Phil lay down on his bed, exhaling heavily.

Sleep did not come easily, but at least it did come. And while it wasn't the most restful sleep, at least no one disturbed him. However, he couldn't sleep away the rest of his life. Phil woke up hungry, to the smell of dinner cooking. Upon investigating, he found that the strike team had uncovered a fully stocked kitchen and someone had started cooking. There were more S.H.I.E.L.D. agents around than before, which meant the strike team was going to be relieved shortly. Phil grabbed a plate, thanking the cook for his dinner before finding a quiet place to sit down. Phoning Fury was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was probably the most important to do. With a sigh, Phil ate a bite of some chicken on rice dish as he dialled Fury's number.

"Coulson," Fury greeted, practically friendly. "I thought I should let you know that Holtz is enjoying a nice sojourn with Nora."

Nora was Fury's favorite Interrogator. She was the only Omega Interrogator they had, and she was gifted with any weapon. Not to fight with the weapon, but to know how to best use the weapon. Nora liked to make the most pain with the least amount of permanent damage when possible.

"Clint Barton was a Hydra asset known as Ronin," Phil said in response. Fury's silence was not unexpected. "He had escaped and been on his own for an indeterminate time when we encountered and recruited him. He was unwillingly sold back to Hydra by Holtz and freed due to his brother's activities."

"What do you think his risk is?" Fury asked evenly.

Phil sighed softly. "I don't think he'll turn against us. Holtz, maybe. But considering where Holtz is… if I can find him, I can talk him around." At least, he hoped he could. Clint wasn't that unreasonable usually. And they had worked together for a year, they were friends. Or as close to friends as Phil let himself get when working with assets.

"He's too important to lose to Hydra," Fury growled. "I want him in our custody again. He's the only survivor we've encountered."

"I understand sir. I'm working on finding him."

"Did his brother have any helpful tips?"

"To wait for Clint to contact me," Phil answered.

"The sooner the better."

"Yes sir," Phil replied, sighing as the dial tone echoed. He put his phone back, picking at his dinner.

The next few days seemed to last an eternity. Garrett and his team left early the next morning, leaving the replacement team to start going through the databanks and searching for any signs of Hydra's plans. There weren't any. They released Barney back into the FBI's custody as they would be the ones deciding his punishment or reward. Phil hoped Barney managed to live through whatever they put him through. Duquesne was still in their custody as they were waiting for Nora to finish with Holtz. Since Phil's interview with the man, he had been becoming more aggressive. Phil entered the observation room, watching as Duquesne tried to free himself from the handcuffs.

Reluctantly Phil headed back into the room. It was his third time attempting to get information from Duquesne in regards to how he and Holtz had contacted each other. Yesterday's attempt had resulted in Duquesne attempting to leap across the table and throttle Phil. All because he had brought up Chisholm.

Duquesne sneered when he saw Phil enter the room. "Back for more?"

"Information," Phil agreed. "I just need to know about Holtz."

"I ain't telling you shit," he sneered. "I heard you guys, out there. You let Barney go. Why's he so special, huh? I got sold into this and you come in here every day, blaming me. You took Barton on –what makes them so special?!"

Phil resisted the urge to rub his temples. "What can you tell me about Hydra, then? We released Barney because he gave us that information." They already had two strike teams preparing to attack two Hydra locations because of Barney.

"Hydra is everywhere," Duquesne said. "Barney'll be dead before the week's out. I ain't stupid like him. Thinkin' he knows everything." Duquesne huffed. "Stupid ass kid."

"You liked him once," Phil pointed out, frustrated.

"He was an idiot back then too. What kind of kid runs away to a circus with his Omega brother?" Duquesne shook his head. "Gets his little bro in all of his shit and then up and sells –"

The door slammed open and Phil turned, surprised when he saw an out of breath agent standing there. "Sir, you need to see this. Immediately."

Phil glanced at Duquesne, almost apologetic, before following after the agent gratefully. He was tired of listening to Duquesne's monologues. In the command center they had set up, there was a crowd of agents standing around. They parted easily enough to let Phil through to the monitors where Leo was seated. On the main screen was video surveillance? There was nothing but rubble and charred ground left of whatever the building had been. An explosion of some sort then, Phil guessed as he spotted some flames along the edge of the screen. Leo pushed a button, and the image changed. But it was hard to tell that it had changed at all, because it was a picture of charred rubble once again.

"What is this?" Phil asked.

"Hydra," Leo replied quietly, his voice trembling. "These are the three other locations Barney gave us. There's nothing left, sir. We don't know who did it."

Hydra, probably. Phil sighed tightly. "They knew we were coming. Is there time to alert the Strike teams?"

"No sir. They're off radio already."

Phil nodded. "There's nothing we can do now."

"Sir," Leo started hesitantly. "Sir, what if it's someone else doing this? What if it wasn't Hydra?"

"Who else would do this? Hydra's too big for it to be any of the other terrorists."

"The Ten Rings," Leo offered tentatively. "Or what about Barney Barton?"

"He's in FBI custody. I don't think he'll be escaping any time soon," Phil explained. "If it's someone else, maybe we can ally with them. It's a good sign if that's the case. If Hydra knows… hopefully they don't."

Leo nodded slowly and cut the surveillance feed off. Phil offered him a supportive smile. Next time, hopefully the interruption would be more important. Duquesne seemed to be about to confess something important; compared to the fact that a few Hydra bases had been burned down. There was nothing that they could do for it now. It was good to be notified about this situation, but it could have waited. Phil left the command center, walking back towards the bunker that would take him back to Duquesne. He really hated the man.

His phone went off, blaring like an air horn. Phil stumbled, hastily pulling it out. No one ever phoned this line unless it was an emergency. "Coulson speaking," he said, guardedly. Sometimes, he got the calls from the bad guys first. Those calls were always the worst.

"C-Coulson," Clint pleaded, his voice shaking. "Coulson, I-I fucked up. I-I need an extraction."

"Where are you?" Phil asked, practically running back to the command center. Leo took one look at him and edged out of the way.

"Budapest, I think," Clint stuttered.

Coulson typed his location into the computer, communicating with the nearest extraction team. Which was conveniently located in their own camp.

"Coulson, Coulson, I'm so sorry," Clint repeated, his voice trembling. "I fucked up."

"Clint, it's going to be fine," Phil said, keeping his voice even and calm. "There's an extraction team en route now. You're going to be fine." There was no response. "Clint? Agent Barton –Hawkeye do you copy?" But no matter what Phil said, Clint did not answer.

Leo had to verify that the line was still connected. At the last minute, Phil hurried to join the extraction team, unable to stand the silence any longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful guesses. My original plan was that it was Natasha who was going to rescue Clint. But the more I thought about it, the harder it was for me to come up with a motivation for her to do so. And I really loved Silver_Bleeding_Earth's suggestion of it being both Natasha and Bucky. And suddenly, I had a motivation for Natasha. 
> 
> You guys are all amazing. I love writing this and hearing from all of you. <3
> 
> Three cheers (or something) if you like Barney Barton!


	7. Dirty Paws

When they found Clint, the situation was nothing any of them were prepared for. Clint was curled up in a phone booth, located near a back alley in an abandoned part of Budapest. Clint was clutching the phone against his ear, staring ahead blankly. Perhaps most concerning of all, was the blood that he was coated in. June –the secondary leader on this extraction (only secondary due to Phil's presence, and he'd feel bad about that later) –stepped out, checking the perimeter worriedly. Phil followed her, knowing that if this were a combat situation, Clint would have a small stockpile of projectiles built up. But Clint didn't have a single weapon in his vicinity. Then again, Ronin wouldn't need a weapon in order to kill someone, Phil thought wryly as he stepped up to the door and gave a polite knock. For a long moment, Clint didn't react and Phil could feel his heart start to seize in panic. But then ever so slowly, Clint raised his head, blue eyes meeting Phil's. Phil cautiously opened the door, checking Clint over, trying to determine if the blood that he was covered in belonged to him or not. The blood had already soaked through his shirt by Phil's estimate. Clint's face was splotchy with dried, caking blood in places and he stared ahead listlessly. If it wasn't for the fact that Phil could see him take each controlled breath, he would have rushed forward to check for a pulse. 

Phil slowly stepped inside, crouching down until he was eyelevel with Clint. He suddenly felt the urge to fly back to Quantico just so he could punch Barney in his face. The Clint in front of him was by no one's definition okay. Unless their definition was based solely on the fact that the person was breathing. So, possibly, by Fury's definition, Clint was okay.

"We got your call, Barton," Phil began gently, watching his agent for a reaction.

Clint blinked slowly and jerked his head forward in what might have been a nod.

Phil adjusted his tie unnecessarily and methodically, just to give his hands something to do. He used that moment to compose himself, to brace for the fact that the man he was seeing was just a slim shadow of the Clint Barton he was used to.

"I'm here to bring you home, Agent Barton." Clint didn't respond. "If you are able to stand, do so."

Clint slowly pushed himself to his feet, wobbling precariously for a moment before steadying himself. He shifted his stance, his head lowering submissively as he stood at attention. Phil inhaled sharply and resisted the urge to bask in Clint's show of submission –that wasn't what Clint needed. An Omega showing submissiveness to an Alpha was their way of acknowledging that they trusted the Alpha in charge, or that they were willing to do as the Alpha wanted. Within a structured hierarchy like S.H.I.E.L.D. it was a show of respect and trust usually. This wasn't exactly within their parameters of normal. But then again, it was Barton. Phil resisted the urge to try and reassure him, fighting his instincts. Phil got to his feet, opening the telephone booth door and letting Clint shuffle out first, noticing that his agent was favoring his left leg.

"Back to the quinjet Barton," he said gently.

Clint shuffled towards the quinjet obediently. And that was probably worse than the eerie silence, was his obedience. It just wasn't Clint. Phil spotted the medic, an anxious young man practically bouncing in place with anxiety. Anyone who knew they were going to have to give Hawkeye medical attention was quite right to be anxious, really. But all Clint did was sit down quietly beside the medic and willingly submit himself for medical treatment. Phil caught June's wide-eyed surprise as she entered the craft and he waved off her questions. Besides not having answers, they wouldn't be getting anything out of Barton until the shock wore off. At least that's what Phil hoped it was.

"Dr. Taylors'll be happy to see you back, Barton," the medic babbled, carefully wrapping a blanket around Clint. "She's been going a little stir crazy without you around for her to micromanage," he laughed at that, tentatively offering Clint a bottle of water.

Clint didn't react. Reluctantly Phil walked over to the medic, took the water bottle from him and twisted the cap off, gently pressing it into Clint's hand. At first Clint did nothing, but then he grasped the bottle and mechanically took a long swig from the bottle. Phil glanced at the medic, subtly scenting the air until he could identify the man's orientation. Beta, strongly smelling of antiseptics. Betas were almost always better to have around Omegas. Betas didn't have a stressful relationship with Omegas, at least not usually, and so they were best at calming down an Omega. However, in some situations, Alphas were always good to have on scene. Phil checked out the other agents on board; all of them were Betas. Which probably explained why Clint only reacted when Phil approached. Because he was an Alpha, and it was instinctual for Clint on a number of levels to obey Phil. As a higher officer, one that Clint was accustomed to obeying and as an Alpha.

"He's pretty deep in shock," the medic admitted softly, staring at Clint concernedly. "A few hours or so and he should come out of it."

Phil nodded, acknowledging that he had heard the Beta's words before stepping back to stand beside June. "It's hard to see him like this," she commented softly.

Last year, during an op in Cairo they'd been working with June's team. She needed a sniper and Phil had been eager to see how Clint would work in the field. Their target had hidden himself in a church and June's team had the blue prints out. They could flush him onto the roof but they were worried they'd lose him in pursuit. It wasn't their first mission, but it was probably about their third. They'd just come in from Giza, tidying up a mess with the pyramids when Phil was notified of June's predicament and agreed to help. Clint set up his perch and Phil watched June's team chase the target onto the roof. He wasn't there for more than two seconds before Clint had taken the shot.

"I know," Phil agreed, keeping his expression bland. If he let go of that control, it would become all too apparent just how worried he was.

At least they had Clint back. Phil watched as the medic tried to examine Clint without disturbing the archer. Finally, the medic sat back and shook his head. He didn't look worried about Clint's physical status at least. At around the fifth hour of their travel, Clint fell asleep. Phil wasn't sure whether to be relieved or more concerned. The medic explained that it wasn't surprising considering that Clint must be going through a great deal of stress. When they landed in New York, Dr. Taylors was waiting on the roof with a gurney. Phil watched as they transferred Clint from the quinjet to the gurney and wheeled him down to the infirmary. Phil attempted to follow only to be stopped by Dr. Taylors.

"No," she said. "Agent Barton needs to rest –I will call you if his situation changes. He might be like this for a few days, Agent Coulson. And I can tell just from looking at you that you're about to fall over and pass out. Go home. I'll call you if something changes."

There wasn't an argument Phil could come up with to prove he was needed in the building, so after a moment, he nodded. He probably should have slept during the flight, but he hadn't been able to relax with Clint so deeply in shock. There was no paperwork he needed to be doing considering Jasper and Maria had been taking care of it for him while he investigated the potential Code Eight on Barton. Tomorrow, he would have to start filling out all the detailed reports on what had happened. But for tonight, he decided to heed Dr. Taylors' advice and head home.

Phil couldn't remember the last time he had been home. The last few weeks were blurred together; something about Brazil and hot, moist jungles and then there was France and salty breezes before arid Budapest. His stomach growled at him on the ride home, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in about seven hours. Not since he was on the 'jet, somewhere over the North Atlantic Ocean. Ten hour flights were most definitely not his favorite. Entering his apartment was familiar and welcoming, although Phil walked straight into the kitchen. Everything was perfectly spotless which meant the cleaning service was still coming by regularly. A few years back they'd once forgotten and he had returned home from a two month op in the Congo to a dusty apartment and a mouldy fridge. Phil glanced at the clock on his stove, the red numbers blurring together. He gave up on trying to read them and grabbed a package of the cheap microwaveable oatmeal he hated. It was quick, fast food and not at all that good.

Phil yawned, pulling the bowl of oatmeal out of the microwave when it dinged. He ate it plain, wondering if he would be home long enough to make it worth a quick grocery run sometime tomorrow. Probably not. He was never home long enough for that. Phil rubbed at his eyes, setting his bowl in the sink before stumbling to his bedroom. He changed into an old, soft t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants before collapsing on his bed and passing out. Phil woke up once, feeling exhausted and hungry. He stumbled into the kitchen, threw another bowl of oatmeal into the microwave and had enough time to marvel that there was a fresh jug of milk in his fridge. S.H.I.E.L.D. must have notified his service that he was home. He took the milk out appreciatively and dug out the brown sugar, adding both to his oatmeal. He didn't even look at the time as he ate, checking his phone out of habit. No messages. Phil dropped the bowl into his already empty sink and stumbled his way back to his bedroom to pass out again.

The next time he was fully conscious, he was showered and wearing a clean suit and it had been three and a half days since he returned to New York. He had one text message dated yesterday informing him that Clint had been more receptive to Dr. Taylors' commands than he had been in the past two days but other than that, there were no major changes. Phil headed into the office, dreading the paperwork he was going to have to fill out, but feeling better than he had in weeks. And the jetlag was finally over and done with, which was something he definitely didn't miss. The other agents stayed clear of him for which he was grateful as he sat down at his desk and started writing his preliminary report on Bruce Banner and his outing in New York. By the time it was two o'clock in the afternoon, he'd started writing the report about Agent Barton only to be interrupted by his stomach growling. He headed down to the cafeteria, grabbing a plate of roast beef and vegetables gratefully. Phil had just finished eating when his phone rang.

"Coulson," he greeted, as he returned his dishes to the kitchen.

"Agent Barton is back with us," Dr. Taylors informed him. "We would appreciate if you could come debrief him before he hurts any more of my medical staff."

"On the way," Phil promised, hurrying towards the elevators.

In the background he could hear a loud crash and some shouting. Dr. Taylors sighed heavily before disconnecting the call. It was a relief to arrive at the infirmary room and find Clint perching on the chair in the corner, holding his lunch tray like a weapon. The only reason it was a relief, was because it was normal behavior for Barton. Phil opened the door and neatly sidestepped the lunch tray that flew towards him.

"Barton, what is this about?" he asked, letting authority slip into his voice.

Clint wobbled precariously on the chair, his bad leg holding most of his weight on the seat of the chair while his other foot rested on the back of the chair. It couldn't have been comfortable. "C-Coulson?" he asked, blinking at Phil disoriented.

"Yes," Phil answered slowly. "Do you remember? You called me from Budapest. You're in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s infirmary, Agent Barton. Terrorizing Dr. Taylors' staff again."

Clint slid down the chair and for a moment Phil worried he was going to have to catch him, but even with his injured leg Clint landed easily on the bed. "I-I don't," he stuttered. "Budapest?" Clint suppressed a shudder.

Phil glanced around the empty infirmary before stepping closer. S.H.I.E.L.D. had two infirmary wings and whenever possible, they tried to keep their patients in wing one. Wing two was reserved for Clint and any other agents that were prone to fighting when in medical. "Yes. You were taken by Duquesne in France. He took you to Luxembourg, just outside Wallendorf." He watched Clint, hoping to see a reaction from him.

Clint ran his hands over his face, foot jiggling impatiently. "Luxembourg," he repeated softly. "Budapest…" He stopped moving abruptly, setting his hands down beside him. "Yeah, yeah I –I remember."

That wasn't the kind of reaction Phil had been anticipating. "You phoned me from Budapest, saying that you'd made a mistake," Phil prompted gently.

Clint flinched at that, twisting his hands around the bedsheets. "I fucked up, you mean," he corrected quietly.

"I don't know about that," Phil said lightly. "The city was still in one piece."

Clint smiled tightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Good for it," he said vehemently. "There's a bunch of people that aren't."

"Start from the beginning," Phil prompted.

Clint shook his head. "No, I… I don't really remember," he mumbled, looking across the infirmary.

Phil arched a brow. "Don't remember or don't want to talk about it?"

Clint turned back to him, guarded. "Don't remember," he said, iron in his voice. "What are you even doing back? What are you doing here with me –you guys should have killed me by now."

"What for?" Phil demanded. "Your superior officer sold you out. That's on him, not you."

Clint stared at him, openly surprised. "Holtz?"

"He's currently in with our Interrogators," Phil explained. "You were innocent in this situation."

Clint's expression shuttered again. "No, no. You don't get to sit there and tell _me_ that. I fucking killed people. You know why Holtz sold me, right? Cuz I'm a fucking murderer. I work for the wrong people."

"You work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Before you guys –"

"You were kidnapped by Hydra, trained to be a killer and tortured until you did their bidding."

Clint jerked back in surprise. "Kidnapped? Who's been telling tall tale—" He froze, his eyes widening. Clint threw his head back and laughed. "Let me guess, you found my brother? Got his side of the story?" Clint snorted. "Well he left out a detail. He fucking sold me to Hydra. There was no kidnapping. And sure they tortured me, but _I_ was the one who went out and killed people. Who else have you been talking to? Duquesne?"

Not for the first time, Phil wished he could go back in time. Make several stops along the way. One of the first would be to when he had Barney Barton in custody, so that he could punch him in the face. "Yes. We had Barney in custody, and Duquesne is currently in our custody."

"Had?"

"Barney is currently in the FBI's custody as he cooperated and gave us the location of several Hydra locations."

Clint scoffed. "Good for him."

"He said he was the one who arranged for you to get out?" Phil asked cautiously, sitting down in the chair Clint had been balancing on not long ago.

Clint shrugged. "He would say that. I guess he had something to do with it."

"How was he involved?"

"He called in a friend and she was the one who got me out," Clint said, his hold on the sheets tightening until his knuckles were white.

"She sounds like a talented woman," Phil commented idly. Clint didn't react. "Why did it take so long for you to call for help?"

Clint glowered at him. "Maybe because I was a captive?"

"I thought she freed you."

Clint stiffened. "Oh. You meant after."

"Yes."

Clint ducked his head, focusing on unclenching his hands from the sheets as he individually relaxed each knuckle. Clint didn't answer.

"Agent Barton, you phoned me, nearly incoherent with grief. Tell me what you think you did."

"I don't think I did it!" Clint snapped. "I _did_ do it. I fucked up."

"How?" Phil repeated patiently.

Clint rolled his shoulders, turning away from Phil subtly. "I –see when you found me? I had this friend, right. Well we'd been through a lot together. And he came with her, the woman, to help me out. But he-he had this plan? To get revenge on-on them, for what they'd done to us. And she wanted to take a shot at them too, right. So I, I agreed. Because they stole everything from me, they nearly killed me; they made me kill people who didn't deserve it!

"They aren't good people, Coulson. So I agreed. And they dressed me in black, gave me a sword and a gun and we drove across Europe blowing up one Hydra facility after another. Because they'll never end until you cut off every head… We destroyed six facilities. No survivors. The Winter Soldier doesn't leave survivors, ya know? Neither does the Black Widow."

Phil couldn't help the way his eyes widened at the mention of those names, or the way his hand spasmed as he wanted to ask Clint a million questions about them. If Barney was able to call in the Black Widow as a favor then Phil had passed up such a huge opportunity. Then again, he hadn't even known or suspected that Clint was involved with Hydra. But he'd had no reason to suspect that it was even possible for someone to escape from Hydra.

"I should have known innocent people would die. They weren't all bad, Coulson. But they worked for a bad organization and we-we killed them all." Clint shuddered at that, pulling at the stitching on the sheet. "My friend, they uh, they had him longer than they had me. They had codes. We didn't know. We didn't know," Clint's voice trembled, blinking back tears. "They called a code and he-he's the Winter Soldier. I don't know how to help him. Widow took off, I don't know where. I don't know how I got away. I just…" Clint shrugged, a little bit helpless as he casually swept his hand across his eyes.

"We want to work with you on this, Clint," Phil said gently. "I've talked to Director Fury. I think there are some things you don't know about Hydra, that we know. And I bet there's a lot more that you know about Hydra."

Clint stared at him, disbelievingly. "You want me to work with you? Even though you know who I am?"

"You're Clint Barton," Phil replied. He got to his feet, pouring them each a glass of water. He turned back, offering a glass to his agent. Clint took it numbly, staring at the water for a moment before taking a drink. "You're Hawkeye."

Clint 

The answer –shouldn't have been that simple, yet it was. He was Hawkeye. No one else could do what he could. But he'd let Bucky down, he'd let them take Bucky. He should have disagreed, tried to get Bucky to join S.H.I.E.L.D. anything other than running in, guns blazing and with no escape plan. But maybe that was what Bucky had wanted, was to die in a blaze of glory after having lost everything that ever mattered to him. Clint should have done more.

"What're you going to do to me now that you know?" Clint asked, watching Coulson carefully.

"Hopefully try to convince you to stay on with us when your sentencing is up," Coulson answered. "We can keep you safe; provide you money, food and shelter. A job. Work that feels meaningful to you." He paused. "If you ever change your mind on being an asset, working as one, there are plenty of other positions open to you. R &D would be grateful to have your mind helping them design anything. You're better at logistics than half the analysts we have employed, because you've been out in the field."

"No," Clint said, shaking his head. "I like doing this. It's… I get to take out the bad guys. I know what they've done. I get to make the call if they deserve it or not."

"You're welcome to stay with us, Agent Barton," Coulson said. "We have no problems with that."

"Even your director?"

Coulson smiled wryly. "Would you feel better hearing it from him? Because we need to debrief you and go over your history. If you're willing to help us fight against Hydra."

Clint swallowed, taking another drink of water. He pushed the memories aside of when Bucky had asked him that same thing. It didn't work out so well for his friend. "We can save my friend, right?"

"We can do everything in our power to try," Coulson said.

It wasn't a promise. But it was better than nothing. "I want to talk to the Director." It felt surreal –Coulson knowing who he was. What he had done. If he'd spoken to Duquesne, which he no doubt had, then he knew everything. Duquesne wouldn't have hidden any of the atrocities Clint had committed a lifetime ago.

Coulson phoned Director Fury and within an hour, they had sealed off the infirmary and turned the audio and video recordings off. Clint could feel his hairs standing on end when Coulson had pointed out that it was happening.

"Director Fury isn't a very trusting man. He's making this as secure as he can. I'll be here the whole time," Coulson said. "I'll be your witness. It's just Director Fury never knows who he can trust."

Clint nodded slowly. It did make sense, especially considering what had happened with Holtz. He was looking forward to seeing the agent when he got out of the Interrogator's room. Make sure that Holtz was truly apologetic for what he'd done. If they'd programmed Clint the same way they had programmed Natasha or Bucky, he wouldn't have walked out of that Hydra facility. In the last moments he'd seen Natasha, she had grabbed him and told him everything she could. About her own experience.

"I thought it was just us," Natasha had hissed. "The Black Widows. They plucked at our memories, told us we were ballerinas, specialists in our own field. Our own world. They had codes to wipe us blank. I thought it was only us. An enchantress found me, caught me snooping around and ripped each code out of my head. She thought it would make me her plaything. I came to after I'd killed her, when all the codes were gone. I never thought… He's not Bucky anymore, Clinton. Get out." And then she vanished into the dark corridors of the Hydra cell.

Clint stayed behind, because he'd always been an idiot. People always said to be careful of the Winter Soldier, to never trust him, because he was more machine than man. As though a metal arm could make him more machine and less human. The image was still burned into his mind. The intercoms had blared, a screeching blast of Morse code once they entered the archives room. Bucky was frozen, his every muscle tense as his eyes drained of life. Natasha gasped, loud and echoing in the small room, her arm like steel as she dragged Clint away. She tucked them into a dark alcove, where no one would notice them unless they were looking. Clint waited there, peering out to watch the archives room. A high ranking Hydra officer came running down, several other officers following behind him as they entered the archives. Clint drew his sword soundlessly, waiting for Bucky to fight them.

He knew it was different the moment he saw the light leave Bucky's eyes. But he just didn't understand how different. The Winter Soldier he had met all those years ago had burned with anger and a scathing sense of humor. He was still human. But as they led Bucky harmlessly out of the room, Clint was beginning to realize that he had known a very different side of the Winter Soldier. But it didn't mean Clint was going to give up on his friend that easily, even as he stepped into the hall, blocking their path. One of the officers snickered.

"He thinks they are friends," he sneered, his Austrian accent heavy. "Well, Winter Soldier, show him just how good of friends you are."

Clint and Bucky reacted at the same time, in flawed unison as only Ronin and the Winter Soldier could. Clint's sword neatly lopped the head off the nearest Hydra officer and Bucky's arm closed around Clint's, easily throwing him backwards. The other officers scattered in disgust as the scientist's body fell to the ground. Clint got to his feet, feeling the beginning of a bruise on his forearm. Bucky had used his metal arm.

"Bucky," he called, frustrated. "We came here for revenge. We came here to kill them!"

The Winter Soldier didn't react, other than adjusting his stance. It was all at once horribly familiar, horribly terrifying. It was an old routine. Years of training with him had given Clint insight into how the Winter Soldier operated, but had never given him an advantage. Charging recklessly always resulted in Clint being pummeled half to death.

"Bucky, come on," Clint cajoled. Natasha's warning was echoing in his head, but he couldn't understand what she meant. Codes?

"He is ours again," said the highest ranking of the officers. "Kill him."

At first Clint didn't understand who the officer was talking to, but then Bucky was advancing. Only he didn't move with the ease Bucky had settled into –it kind of reminded him of how the leopards at the circus used to move. But it was a steady gait, light on eye contact and with a smile usually. Not this. This was all the Winter Soldier in his glory, every step was full of intent and his eyes promised death. There was no Bucky. Clint stepped backwards, his grip tightening on his sword.

"Bucky," Clint said, helpless. They'd ended up together, they'd escaped together. His beginning at Hydra practically started with Bucky.

"Shut up," he spat in an unfamiliar Russian accent.

And then Bucky closed the distance between them, his metal arm flying for Clint's face. These people either didn't know who he was or they didn't care. The Winter Soldier had always been more important and maybe this was why. Because they had codes to wipe him clean, return him to this existence. Bucky was going to hate himself. He could remember everything that he had done as the Winter Soldier, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He was there, watching. Watching as his body attacked Clint.

Clint drew his sword, stopping Bucky's blow for a second. The Winter Soldier caught his sword and twisted the metal together, ruining the blade as he yanked it from Clint's grip. Expecting it, Clint let go of the blade and raced down the hall towards the nearest officer. A gunshot echoed through the hall, leaving Clint more deafened than usual as he cowered behind the Hydra officer. The second bullet went clean through the first officer and into the second, showering Clint in blood. He threw the body towards the Winter Soldier and fired his gun at where he knew Bucky's arm was most sensitive. He didn't want to hurt him but he didn't know what else to do.

He fired another shot, aiming higher, hoping to distract Bucky; he barreled down the hallway and dove into the nearest doorway he could find. He slammed the door shut, his heartbeat echoing inside his skull too loudly. He still couldn't hear anything. He scanned the room, and caught sight of the window just as the door was forced open. Clint fired at the window and jumped through it, racing into the darkness of the forest that surrounded the Hydra base. Assuming Bucky had followed; Clint climbed the nearest tree and started easing his way through the branches to another tree. He avoided travelling deeper into the forest, keeping instead to the outskirts and heading directly east. For once, he was grateful for the lessons he'd taken at S.H.I.E.L.D. When evading pursuit, it was assumed that the person they were pursuing would run straight ahead in a blind panic. But as an operative if they were being pursued, they had to break out from that panic. Head in a different direction and keep following it. The ground wasn't wet or damp and it was pitch black out –Bucky wasn't going to be able to track with this kind of light. However, it was nothing that would stop Clint.

At some point in the morning, he must have crossed the Austrian border and into Hungary. He caught the nearest taxi, paid for it with stolen money and let the driver drive him into Budapest. It was a blur after that. He didn't really remember phoning Coulson or how he came to medical. But it was enough to know that he was at S.H.I.E.L.D. and that he was alive.

"How are your injuries?" Coulson asked, setting a chair down beside his, presumably for Director Fury to take when he arrived. It wouldn't be much longer, Coulson had explained.

"Dr. Taylors' patched them up nicely," Clint answered. "I've had worse."

Coulson arched a brow at him. "In the year you've been working for us, you've never almost died."

"See, I was overdue," Clint teased, grinning at Coulson. It was fun to try and rile the man up. The best he had managed was the suspicious eyebrow raise and a few laughs here and there, but it was better than nothing. One day he'd get a full reaction –probably one out of anger. But no, Coulson really didn't seem like the kind of guy to do that.

And for all his years with Hydra, Clint wasn't really sure if he'd ever come this close to death before. Seeing how he was unconscious for the worst part of the ordeal and then tortured, hauled across the country, then across the continent and finally fought with a super soldier, he figured it was alright to not really consider the effects it would have on him. Dr. Taylors' said if he wasn't careful from now on, he could end up with permanent leg damage. The scarring on his chest was never going to look attractive and he was lucky the injury wasn't worse. She had also admitted to being concerned by how high his pain tolerance was and Clint managed to brush the comment aside. Even for S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, his tolerance was terribly high. Probably because of all the torture, really, but that wasn't something you just casually dropped into conversation. It made people go quiet.

Fury pushed open the doors, striding into the room. He glanced at Coulson and then turned his attention to Clint. He took the nearest seat and Coulson didn't sit until Fury was seated.

"How do I know if I can trust you?" Fury asked bluntly, leaning back in his seat. Beside him, Coulson's bland mask was back in place.

"You trusted me before," Clint said, more than a little apprehensive.

"I trusted that you would stick out your service. As someone with nowhere else to go."

"I still don't have anywhere to go," Clint argued. "They almost killed me. They don't care who I am."

Fury's mouth twisted down. "They took you from us, Barton. You are a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset on a potential _–potential –_ path to doing something great. In five years, let's say you've become a Level Six asset. Privy to some of the world's greatest secrets, about political and economic weaknesses and personal friendships to expose –you'll become a target. They'll want you underground with an Interrogator, to break you."

Clint crossed his arms. "Been there, done that," he fired back icily.

"You are a risk, Agent Barton," Fury argued, his eye on Clint with steely determination.

"He isn't," Coulson said, cutting into the conversation. "He's gone through Interrogation before. We can put him on a priority evac list; make sure he's never in their custody for longer than seventy-two hours."

"I could probably last ninety-six," Clint heard himself say. And what even? Four days in isolation, with expert torturers? He wasn't _sure_ he could last that long. It would depend on how the Interrogator operated.

Fury ignored him. "He's still a flight risk."

"Offer him a better deal; he's been here long enough. He can make his own decisions."

Fury huffed, turning back to Clint. "Will you sign on to S.H.I.E.L.D. willingly?"

Clint hesitated. "What about my years left to serve?"

"I can have them converted due to your exemplary behavior, _but_ that is contingent on your agreement. It's not something you can back out of."

"And if I don't agree?" Clint glanced between Coulson and Fury, at the way their lips were turned down. Coulson in particular looked most regretful.

"Hydra will be hunting you. Other organizations will start to fight for the bounty to bring you in. At best, you would stay here, in New York, with a protection detail. Indefinitely," Coulson said slowly.

"At worst? We would have to lock you up or try and modify your memories," Fury stated.

Clint looked down, his fingers twitching impatiently. Neither offer sounded great. "I like what I do here. I like knowing I'm taking the bad guys down. But I –I don't know if this is something I want to do for the rest of my life."

"I think we can afford to give you vacations and free time, when you need it. Your contract would be unlike any other agent's," Coulson explained.

Clint ground his teeth together. "I had half my life stolen by Hydra and now you want to steal the rest of it!"

"You are a criminal assassin with a kill count so high we aren't sure how many people are on it," Fury said bluntly. "We are offering you full medical, a full-time playing job complete with every benefit imaginable. The work you do doesn't have to be killing. You can take time off, switch departments, figure it out. I don't know if I can trust you."

"Because I'm Ronin?" Clint snarled, glaring at Fury.

"Because you are a talented young man," Coulson interjected, frowning at Clint in disapproval. "You can shoot an arrow faster than anyone can shoot a bullet. You are gifted in a lot of things, Agent Barton. And you have a criminal record, which as far as we know, is the only thing keeping you here." At that, he gave him a pointed look.

Oh. _Oh._ That's what this was about? Clint glanced back down at his hands. "I like the work. I like the organization. I would never go to Hydra or some other organization. I don't –they don't have Coulsons. Or Sitwells or Hills." He fidgeted, tugging at the bedsheet absently. "They just make you kill whoever it's convenient to. Whoever asked for it. I don't like that. I'm not here for the money or the benefits."

"What are you here for?"

"I'm here because I'm useful," Clint said, turning to meet Fury's gaze. "And if you help me save my friend, I'll stay here. However long you need me to stay."

Fury brought his hands together, steepling his fingers. "Tell me about this friend."

With only a brief glance at Coulson –who was smiling proudly –Clint, told them everything. How Barney sold him to Hydra, how he met the Winter Soldier and befriended Bucky. It had more to do with his stubbornness than anything else, as he relentlessly chattered about mundane things with Bucky. It took a while before the other man thawed enough to talk back at all. He told them why he stole the money, how it was all for Bucky, how he had escaped via the air ducts last year in order to check on his friend. He told them about Natasha saving him, leading him back to Bucky. The crazy plan to get revenge on Hydra –and why did he ever agree to that? It was possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Neither Coulson nor Fury reacted much to his story, even as he quietly told them about Bucky becoming the Winter Soldier.

"I'm sorry you went through that," Coulson said.

"We'll do what we can for your friend," Fury said, his eye on Clint's. "But when I send the paperwork to you, you'd better sign it."

"Yes, of course, sir."

Fury paused, turning to Coulson for a moment. They didn't exchange words. Whatever their conversation was, it passed entirely in micro expressions that were there-and-gone-again so quick Clint couldn't even process them.

"You are the first and only Omega to have escaped Hydra," Fury said, as bluntly as ever. "We have tried to rescue them before. But our previous plans were disastrous –every Omega chomped down on a suicide pill. Since you cleared all of medical's tests, we know you don't have a false tooth. So I want to know what's so special about you, Hawkeye."

"Those were the –the other Omegas. Older ones. Maybe in their late twenties, early thirties," Clint said quietly. "They aren't –they aren't all there." He paused, gesturing to his head. "They weren't good fighters. They ran into battle and took out as many as they could before they died. Hydra agents used to talk about them; how they were the biggest failure Hydra had ever seen. Too bloody, too much of a waste of good fighters." Clint twisted his mouth in disgust. "So they used them as traps, for cannon fodder. Duquesne liked to remind me what I could have ended up like. It was an injectable shot, turned them into these mindless drones."

"There are more Omegas like you then?" Coulson answered, hope bright on his face.

"I guess so," Clint answered, wary. "Few of 'em are more like Bucky. Brainwashed. Most of 'em would be like me, yeah. Tortured into compliance. I don't really –" Clint paused, frustrated. "I was kept with the Winter Soldier, sent out on missions. I didn't see the others. I came into Hydra with a skill-set they put to use. Most others aren't as lucky. I don't know what they went through."

In his line of experience, he hadn't met too many Omegas like him. And when he had crossed paths with them, they didn't talk.

"Not all of the Omegas got names like you," Coulson said, cautiously.

Clint smiled bitterly. "That's because the names are how they tell us apart. Those of us that were… special. The Omegas that have no talent, remain mediocre? They don't get names. I don't really know what became of them. I got separated when they were worried about all that."

It was mostly a blur, the first few weeks after he had been sold. It wasn't like anything he had ever experienced before. There were so many kids, his age and younger. A few were older, but not many. Most of them had glassy eyes and it wasn't like they were there. Clint kept to himself while the others cuddled up. They were housed in one area together, a building that resembled a barn more than a house. There were cold drafts; there was always a sick kid. And there was never enough food to go around. Clint used to split his rations with the youngest kids, the skinniest ones. When he could, he'd give his own portion to the sick ones. But he needed to eat, and he needed to survive. It wasn't like he'd been treated particularly well at Carson's. It wasn't long before he couldn't split his rations with the kids anymore.

In the mornings, they'd be led down into a training area where they could show off their skills. There were swords and guns provided. There were no instructions, no one inside the ring with them. No one ever touched the guns. Clint picked up a sword, confident that he could do a decent job after all the times he'd seen Duquesne in action. It must have impressed the right people. The children tried to get him to teach them and he did what he could before he was forcibly dragged away and handed from one officer to another until he wound up in the back of a cargo truck. Some other kid he didn't know was there. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the kid's name. But he was the one who had said that Bucky was more machine than human. They let Clint off at a farm with three other Hydra agents. From there on, he was taught by the Swordsman and the Winter Soldier at a little farm in the middle of Virginia.

When he and Bucky escaped, they figured New York was far enough away to keep them safe. It probably wasn't. But it did provide them enough anonymity to disappear entirely. Until… until Bucky got sick, until Clint was arrested. It was enough until then.

"Thank you, Agent Barton," Fury said, nodding.

Fury asked a few more questions and Coulson had the odd question here and there which Clint did his best to answer, struggling to remember what few details he could. Mostly there had been too much panic and fear to leave him with anything other than those distressed feelings, but he knew Barney had sold him to Hydra when they were doing a show in Utah. He remembered feeling like he was locked in darkness for an eternity before he was led into the barn where the other children were. He knew that it had been several days before they reached the destination though, because the cargo truck had had to stop a lot. For gas stops, for the Hydra agents to lead the captive Omegas out for bathroom breaks. Food consisted of stale bread or crackers being thrown in at them.

When Fury and Coulson went to stand, Clint stared up at them. "You're gonna find the place, aren't you? Save the kids?"

"We're going to do what we can," Coulson agreed.

"And we're going to look for your friend," Fury added. "Sign the paperwork tomorrow. I'll get Hill on it tonight. Coulson, I need this typed up so I can send it to the WSC."

"WSC?" Clint repeated, searching for an answer.

Coulson smiled at him. "Ask me tomorrow, Agent Barton. Rest up." Coulson turned his attention back to Fury, continuing their hushed conversation as they left the room.

Clint laid down slowly, feeling oddly unsettled by the whole situation. And why would he get a different answer from Coulson come tomorrow? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I've come into some free time recently. It gives me time to write like a mad woman. (Ahh, I've missed being able to do that).
> 
> Also I've started adding gifs to tease some of the content forthcoming for this fic on my tumblr account. Kinthinia.tumblr.com -I tag everything related to my fics as Kinthinia writes.
> 
> Love to you all! Hope you enjoy.


	8. Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything has been edited by my wonderful beta, Weeping Naiad :D

Unsurprisingly it was Dr. Taylors' who brought the paperwork for Clint to fill out. Nothing much changed, all things considered. He was just promising to be loyal and to spend the rest of his life working for them. All in order to get Bucky some help. There were worse things, he supposed, that he could have been stuck doing. Working for the FBI or Hydra was definitely up there. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't so bad. He signed his name on every dotted line, scrawling the date down next to his signature. Dr. Taylors went over his bloodwork, standing unobtrusively next to him. 

"You know you're pretty lucky," she commented. "A few days longer and your Heat would have hit." 

Bucky and Natasha would have kept him safe. Assuming they had been there when the waves hit him. "Yeah," he agreed. 

"I'm not clearing you for fieldwork until this heals up," she said sternly, gesturing to his chest. "You're lucky you didn't puncture an organ or worse." 

Clint sighed. "I know, doc." 

"I want you on crutches for at least a week, until I'm sure you'll make a full recovery." 

Clint flashed a charming smile. "Whatever you say, doc." 

Dr. Taylors' only frowned at him. "Don't think you're getting out of this that easily, Agent Barton," she chided. "While I'm releasing you because there's no medical reason to keep you here, I am releasing you into Agent Coulson's supervision." She smiled at that. 

Clint groaned. "No, you can't do this to me." 

"If you wouldn't make such a nuisance of doing what I say, I wouldn't have to do this Clint," she said, sounding genuinely apologetic. "You are important. And keeping you healthy, as best as I can, is my job." 

Dr. Taylors' checked over his wounds once again before dismissing him with a new set of crutches. Walking down the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. for the first time since his return felt oddly surreal. Some of the agents gave him a wide berth, others –agents he didn't even know –stopped to wish him a speedy recovery. Clint limped his way to Coulson's office steadily, hating every second of it. But Dr. Taylors' had assured him that she would be checking in with Coulson every so often to make sure Clint was following her orders. Clint huffed a sigh as he reached Coulson's office door, not bothering to fumble around with his crutches in order to knock. Clint opened the door and hobbled inside. 

"There is such a thing as knocking, Barton," Coulson commented dryly, not looking away from his computer. 

"My hands were full," Clint protested, shuffling over to the couch. 

"Then how did you get the door open?" 

"It just opened when I thought about it," Clint fired back, settling onto the couch. 

"Ah, so you're telekinetic now? That's good to know; I'll have to update your file. Add that in." 

Clint chuckled. "Yeah, I wish." 

"You could do your share of paperwork for once," Coulson said casually after a beat of silence. 

"But then what would you do?" Clint teased. "I wouldn't want you to get _bored,_ sir." 

"Believe me; I have plenty more forms to file. It would be no hardship if you did your own paperwork, Barton." 

Clint got to his feet, leaving his crutches behind so he could hop over on one leg to sit across from Coulson. Coulson glanced up at him, unimpressed. Clint flashed him a bright grin. Wordlessly Coulson searched through his stack of papers, handing over a stapled package. There were at least fifteen pages connected to it. Clint grimaced, grabbed a pen and got to work. He had to write his action report for the time he was with Holtz and detail what Holtz's plans were. When he'd finished writing that out and flipped to the next page, he nearly groaned. Next, he had to detail everything he remembered after he was taken captive. He referred to Natasha only as the Black Widow and avoided describing her. She didn't seem like the kind of person who would appreciate being on file for a government agency, no matter how "good" the agency was supposed to be. Seeing her in action had been a once in a lifetime opportunity though. _She was good._ Maybe even the best. Honestly, if the Winter Soldier and she had collided, he wasn't sure who win. Maybe nobody. It seemed like the kind of battle that would end without a winner, just two losers. Neither of them would have been walking away from that kind of a battle. 

Clint glanced at Agent Coulson occasionally as he wrote report after report on Hydra and what he knew of them. It was like S.H.I.E.L.D. had paperwork for everything. Someone somewhere in the organization had been given the job of coming up with form names for every imaginable outcome. Even this one –rescuing a captured operative. The next form was even more specific, designed for those who had been in hostile hands for a prolonged period of time. Maybe not technically accurate since Clint had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. afterwards, but more than accurate enough. By the time he had finished filling that form out, he was six pages in and not even halfway through his stack of files. Coulson on the other hand had filled out at least twice as much as Clint had. Which was just typical for the senior agent. 

The afternoon passed in mostly silence as both men filled out their paperwork. Clint took his first coffee break an hour in, and when he returned he found that Coulson hadn't moved. At his second coffee break, Clint just brought a second cup of coffee in with him. Coulson had looked genuinely surprised, taking the coffee without complaint. Clint wasn't sure he'd ever seen Coulson in the break room at the same time as him, so he'd done his best to add a little sugar and cream. If anyone asked, he would never admit it, but Clint watched for Coulson to take the first sip of his coffee before he resumed working on his forms. (Coulson didn't even complain; he just kept drinking). Clint hoped it was because he was just that good at making coffee and not because Coulson was too polite, even though it was more likely the latter that had kept Coulson from saying anything. 

It was late evening before Coulson pulled back from his desk; paperwork neatly filled out and stacked on one side of his desk. Clint was quietly envious as he struggled to get through the final page of paperwork –a requisitions form. For a new bow since Duquesne had so carelessly thrown his most prized possession aside like trash. 

"In a few days, you'll be an official agent," Coulson commented, stretching. "Certain benefits come with that, you know." 

"Like what?" Clint asked, distracted as he tried to work out what a new bow would approximately cost R &D to make. The numbers were blurring together inside his head. Coulson smiled indulgently at him, reaching over to snag the paper from his hands. "Hey!" Clint protested. 

"You look dead on your feet, Barton," Coulson said, neatly jotting a figure down before handing the paper back. "Besides, that form's usually one I fill out. I didn't realize it ended up in your pile." 

Clint frowned at the older agent confusedly. "You have to figure all this stuff out?" he asked, gesturing to the paper. 

"Just approximations, I'm not in the financial department," he replied, amusement coloring his tone. 

"Shouldn't you have someone to do this stuff for you?" Clint asked dumbly. 

Coulson's lips twitched into an aborted smile. "Why do you think I give you the paperwork, Barton? Come on, it's not too late, we can still grab lunch at the cafeteria." 

Clint lumbered to his feet, grabbing his crutches which had migrated to rest against Coulson's desk sometime around his third coffee break. Clint shuffled out the door, lingering in the hall as Coulson shut and locked the door. In his hand was the stack of paperwork they'd worked through today. Did Coulson usually get saddled with this much paperwork to do? No wonder he always looked tired –no wonder he loved going into the field so much. Clint winced, realizing that all the papers he avoided and/or simply didn't do, meant extra work for Coulson to do. Coulson walked down the hall with him, stopping just before the elevator to set all the paper in a tray box. The tray vanished in seconds, another empty one coming up to replace it. Of course S.H.I.E.L.D. had security measures to protect its paperwork. And, actually, it was pretty reassuring considering everything he'd just written down. 

Clint hobbled into the elevator, vaguely wondering if he could apply any circus techniques to make walking less awkward. Or something so that he could at least try and impress a few people here or there. Anything as long as he didn't look quite so dorky. Coulson stepped in after him, pushing the floor number that would get them to the cafeteria. 

"Hold the elevator!" called someone from the end of the hall. 

Clint felt a wild urge to reach over and close the doors instead but Coulson simply held the doors back until the straggler arrived, stepping into the elevator quickly. Clint looked up at the stranger cautiously –the other man was familiar, but Clint couldn't place why. He leaned back against the corner, ensuring he was boxed in and that, if need be, he could fight his way out. Coulson however was relaxed, practically at ease and fidgeting. Clint turned his attention back to the golden haired stranger, the way the man stood with a perfect posture and just existed. 

"Thanks Agent Coulson," he said, not even winded despite having run the length of the corridor. 

"No trouble Captain," Coulson reassured him. 

The blonde haired man turned to face Clint, smiling politely. Clint stiffened, shifting awkwardly, wishing he could cross his arms and appear more threatening. Not that it would do much considering the man in front of him was like a wall of muscle. But Clint knew plenty of ways to take down guys like him –short size and speed made a pretty advantage. 

"I don't think I've seen you around before?" the Captain said, still smiling politely. 

"Clint Barton," he said reluctantly, shoving his hand out. 

The Captain, whoever he was, couldn't have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six. "Steve Rogers," he said, shaking his hand firmly. 

Oh god. Captain Steven Rogers. Clint felt his face heat up even as Captain Rogers _–Captain fucking America_ –turned back to talk to Agent Coulson. He leaned against the wall of the elevator, chatting easily with Coulson. Clint wished the ground could open up and swallow him whole. No wonder the guy was familiar –he was on television nearly as often as Tony Stark –his betrothed. And Clint acted like a total shit. He glanced at Coulson, but the agent was focused on Captain America. Of course he would be –who wouldn't be? Clint, apparently. 

"I hadn't realized you were back yet," Coulson said. 

"Director Fury called me in." Captain Rogers paused, glancing back at Clint briefly. "About Brazil, I was wondering –" 

"My reports should make their way to your desk first thing in the morning, Captain," Coulson replied. 

Captain Rogers exhaled and seemed to relax just as they reached their floor. "Thank you," he said, very clearly relieved. 

"And how are things going with Stark?" Coulson queried, stepping out of the elevator. 

Captain Rogers made a face. "As well as could be expected," he replied cryptically, following Coulson out. 

Clint hobbled out after them after only a brief moment of indecision. If he stayed inside, he could possibly pretend that he'd never met and embarrassed himself in front of Captain America. But his growling stomach won out, in the end. He'd heard some agents refer to Captain Rogers before, but he'd never made the connection that it was Steve Rogers. Why would he? Captain Rogers was an army man, set to be married to Tony Stark. Clint hobbled along behind the two agents, giving them enough privacy to discuss top secret spy missions in peace. Since Captain Rogers and Tony Stark were betrothed to each other, Stark had stopped appearing in the media quite so often. He wasn't in the spotlight, having escaped from his mansion in order to party it up at a club. It wasn't like Omegas weren't allowed to party or that the clubs were inappropriate. 

It had more to do with the fact that Tony Stark was an Omega with a future. His Heats were worth money –everything about the inventor was worth money. And his guardian was determined to make good on that, by all appearances. It wasn't uncommon for the rich Omegas to have such struggles, to be relegated to staying silent in the kitchen. Despite all of Stark's progress in school and in weapons manufacturing, he was just an Omega. Clint didn't envy him. However, thinking about it left Clint just as aware of his own shortfalls as ever. Alphas liked good looking Omegas, charming and sophisticated, trim figures who were glorified wall flowers. And despite the fact that Clint was twenty-two, he'd never met an Alpha who'd shown the merest hint of interest in him. Or even a Beta. 

Clint gritted his teeth as he stepped up to the serving line. It wasn't entirely true. Back at Carson's there'd been a young Beta he had met after a show. And it wasn't like there was anyone around to stop him from experimenting, no matter how much control Chisholm liked to claim he had. That had happened only weeks before Barney sold him to Hydra though. Clint grabbed dinner without paying attention to what he'd chosen as he settled down at the nearest table, purposefully keeping away from Agent Coulson and Captain Rogers. At Carson's when he went into Heat, Barney and one of the older Omega women made sure to lock him into the cab of a truck and keep him separate from the rest of the crew. When his Heat was over, they would spend the next day scrubbing the cab clean. And when he was at Hydra, he didn't exactly have a lot of freedom to experiment with. He was on suppressants and he was attractive enough, they had no problem with letting him charm his way into a young woman's bed or two provided it was within the mission parameters. Clint never did manage to bed the women they sent him to kill. Unlike the Black Widows, where it was practically expected for them to bed the men or women they took and murder them afterwards. 

He had never been with anyone, other than when he was just a kid. And of course the longing for sex never bothered him unless his Heat was just around the corner. Maybe with all this promised vacation time, he could find some time to go out and get laid. Clint shoveled the food into his mouth, ignoring the taste. As he returned his tray, he snagged a couple bottles of water and some granola bars before heading back to his room. As he walked towards the door, out of the corner of his eye he could see Coulson and Captain Rogers engaged in what appeared to be a very serious conversation. Clint continued walking down to his room, locking the door behind him. Nothing had been disturbed since he'd left. 

In the old days, an Omega's Heat used to drive an Alpha wild but with an increase in rapes and accidental murders, both Omegas and Alphas evolved to the point where an Omega in Heat was like a nice perfume. Attractive and enticing to the Alpha but the Alpha didn't lose control –unless he wanted to. The room S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided Clint with came with the option to lock it down when he was in Heat. Only his physician would be able to have access. Clint pressed his palm against the scanner, indicating that he needed some time off for his Heat. It would get sent to Dr. Taylors and she would send the paperwork into Human Resources who would likely send a notification to Coulson so that Clint wouldn't be scheduled for any missions while he was in the throes of his body. 

Clint set out the bottles of water and granola bars on his nightstand before checking on his lube and sex toys. He could make it through another Heat alone. Clint pulled off his shirt, letting it fall onto the floor as he walked into his bathroom. Maybe, one day he could find an Alpha who would put up with him. It might be nice. Clint paused in front of the mirror, toeing his socks off. Sometimes, he really missed being able to take suppressants. He stared at his body, at the scars scattered across his chest and the still-healing lines where he had been tortured. He tentatively touched the mark where Duquesne had shoved an arrow through him. He was lucky he wasn't dead, that much he knew. The scar was going to be an ugly one. Yet another thing Alphas didn't appreciate. Clint pushed his jeans off, his underwear following as he turned the shower on. 

Already he could feel the beginning aches in his abdomen, warning him that his Heat was coming. Aside from the first four or so Heats when he had signed up with S.H.I.E.L.D, they hadn't been that terrible. They just started with him feeling lonely. Clint sighed at his reflection morosely before stepping into the hot spray of the shower. Aside from Bucky, he didn't even have any friends here. Coulson and Sitwell were the closest to friends he had. And both of them were his bosses. Clint scrubbed his body clean before stepping out and walking into his bedroom. He grabbed a towel and dried off absently, pulling out a clean pair of underwear which he stepped into. It used to be easy to forget that he was an Omega. But at moments like this, it hit him hard. Clint ran a hand through his hair, growling under his breath. 

_Get yourself together Barton,_ he thought. Clint flopped onto his bed, focusing on his need to sleep. He visualized holding a bow in his hand, no arrow, focused completely on the task before him. Relaxing his muscles, his thoughts and emotions. Whatever he couldn't get rid of, he wove into an arrow of brightly made color and fired into the darkness, watching it vanish as sleep washed over him. 

His Heat at least gave him reprieve from dealing with his injuries. It wasn't a welcome distraction by any means, having a fiery need burning in him that he couldn't quite settle. The toys did their job though and Clint weathered his Heat just like he weathered everything else in his life. The loneliness that had been clouding around him was still trying to throttle him, so on the fifth day he took a long shower to wash the remaining scent of sex from his skin. His Heats were irregular to say the least. But yesterday when he thought the worst of it was over, he had headed down to see Dr. Taylors in order to get cleared for fieldwork early on. She inspected his wounds and gave the reluctant go-ahead but informed him it appeared that he would have another wave of Heat to battle yet. A benefit of Heat was the fact that Clint's body boosted into gear; it burned off colds and healed injuries faster in order to make the mating more successful. 

He pulled on fresh clothes, walked down to the cafeteria and got a breakfast for two before heading up to Coulson's office. Unsurprisingly the man was already seated in front of his computer, a wrinkle on his brow that Clint usually only saw when he'd done something stupid. 

"Hey boss," he said, setting a cup of coffee onto the corner of Coulson's desk. He set the muffin right beside it as he walked over to Coulson's couch, crutch free. Coulson seemed surprised to realize he was there, glancing at his breakfast before turning to Clint. "I didn't steal it!" Clint laughed. "Can you believe there's these folks who just leave all this food sitting around downstairs though?" he asked, adopting a clueless western accent. "It's like they're just begging someone to take it." 

Coulson rolled his eyes, something like a fond smile on his lips as he took a sip of his coffee. "Thank you, Barton." 

Clint shrugged, like it was nothing, and took a bite out of his own muffin. "So I think you promised to tell me about these WSC people the other day?" he prompted, unwrapping his muffin as he took another bite. 

Coulson pulled back from his computer, the wrinkle on his forehead smoothing away as he sipped on his coffee. "You do have your clearance now," he mused, glancing at the door to make sure it was shut. It was, of course. "They are the World Security Council, in charge of overseeing global security. While Hydra is rarely their top priority, they have been greatly concerned with the large number of Omegas that have gone missing." 

"So why didn't they ever do anything about it?" 

"They did," Coulson said patiently. "A few years ago they had us organize a full scale investigation. They approved Captain Rogers' mission to Afghanistan in order to rescue those Omegas. However, Hydra has managed to conceal the location of the missing Omegas from us. We've had no clues. We've called in every expert we could think of –and nothing." 

"Until me," Clint breathed out, staring at Coulson in surprise. 

"We've passed on everything you've given us to the World Security Council. Director Fury is negotiating with Secretary Pierce to allow Captain Rogers to lead a Strike force to the locations you've provided us with." Coulson paused. "Any Omegas rescued will be due to you." 

Clint shrugged uncomfortably. "What are we going to be doing instead?" he asked, desperate to change the topic. He could have saved those Omegas sooner. If he'd only spoken up earlier. 

"We have a lead in Bucharest about a possible Hydra connection. One of our contacts sent in a notification of the activity a few hours ago." 

"So we're going back to Europe?" Clint asked, finishing off his muffin. 

They had a few hours to get ready so Clint headed down to R &D to check in with them on his new bow and was delighted to see that they had put together one that was nearly identical to his last bow. The few touch ups they had done were entirely to his quiver, as they went over the trick arrows he had shown them how to make. And it had taken him a very long time before he had been willing to share that information, but Simmons was a patient woman and Clint inevitably caved and showed her how he did it. In return, she let him bounce ideas off her about grappling arrows and together they managed to solve the problem of how to make sure the arrow would work as intended. The quiver held different arrowheads and at the touch of a button, would swap out a regular arrowhead for a tricked out one. However, there were only two grappling arrowheads that had been worked into the quiver while the rest were mostly explosives or poison tipped. 

Clint thanked her and immediately went down to the range to practice. He could sleep during the eleven hour flight. He practiced until he could feel his blood racing and his heart pounding. At which point he headed down to see Dr. Taylors to get her final approval. She agreed that his Heat was over and poked and prodded at his wounds before sighing and agreeing that he should be fine for fieldwork. She handed over his emergency suppressant supply –if he didn't use the supply, he always returned it to her. She never asked him to, but it was easier to do it than not. Clint didn't want to be fighting his instincts about it, to be constantly tempted to just grab the pills and put off his Heat for a little longer. In the year he'd been at S.H.I.E.L.D. and doing missions with Coulson, he'd never even come close to needing to use the suppressants. Clint returned to his room, packed a go bag and went to wait for Coulson at the airstrip. 

Phil 

Bucharest was a mess when they arrived but after some snooping around, they revealed that it was a Beta trafficking ring. Too many evil scientists liked using Betas for science projects because, in their opinion, results using Betas were more stable as they were unimpeded by hormones like Alphas and Omegas could be. They dug up the gang's location and Phil gave the order. Clint took the shot and the scientist went down hard, sending the others into action. While they were only a team of two, they managed to neutralize the scene and arrest half of the fleeing gang members. The rest of them left in body bags. They didn't even have time to get back to their hotel when Hill called in a request for them to head to Belgrade to intervene a weapons shipment from Hammer Industries that they had stolen from one of Stark Industries regular buyers. After they arrested the conspirators and got onto the quinjet, Phil was grateful for the time off. 

For once, Agent Barton sat down and helped him through the paperwork. And Phil actually got to leave the office early. He signed in with medical, knowing that his own Rut cycle would be coming within a week. Betas were the only ones who didn't go through these hormone filled cycles and as such they were permitted extra weeks off that Alphas and Omegas couldn't take off because of their own Heat and Rut cycles. As far as Phil was concerned, it was fair. It also gave the Betas wiggle room if their partner was an Omega or Alpha that they wanted to help go through their cycle. Dr. Taylors gave him a smile shy as Phil stepped out of his physician's room. 

"Do you maybe," she started, her hands clasped at her midsection, "do you maybe want to get dinner tonight, Agent Coulson?" she asked tentatively. 

Phil honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd spent time with someone outside of work. "That sounds nice," he said, trying for pleasurable but he was pretty sure he was short of the mark. It had been far too long. 

Dr. Taylors' cheeks flooded pink with excitement. "Would tonight work?" 

"Tonight sounds perfect," Phil said warmly. 

"We can meet at Gold Coast Grill?" she asked, practically bouncing in excitement. "At nineteen hundred?" 

Phil agreed and Dr. Taylors darted off, her dark curls bouncing behind her as she headed to her room. Phil used the time he had left to shower and comb his hair, picking out a suit that wouldn't look too out of place at the restaurant they were going to. Dr. Taylors was a lovely woman. He just hadn't been thinking about dating lately. But getting to know her better would be a pleasant experience, he was sure. And even if it wasn't, if there was no chemistry between them, it still would be nice to spend time with another human being that wasn't Clint Barton, Fury, Jasper or Maria. And so long as none of his friends happened past the bar, they would be none the wiser to the date he was about to go on. 

As Phil adjusted his tie, he tried to remember the last date he had been on. It was probably about three years ago, when he went out ice skating with Harry. Only to be called away for some job related trouble –Harry never called back, not that Phil blamed him. And before that it had been Michelle. They'd made it to about three dates before work interfered. And before her was probably the last serious relationship he'd had, with Grace –they'd lived together, after graduating high school and through most of his S.H.I.E.L.D. academy training. Grace had felt abandoned before Phil had even gotten his job at S.H.I.E.L.D. and sometime around his last year in the academy; she began spending her time with other Alphas. It was a bitter ending. But in retrospect, Phil could understand why she had been feeling so neglected and how their conversations just ended up being a repeat of the same argument. Ultimately, Phil wasn't very good at relationships. 

And apparently quite rusty at dating. Despite Dr. Taylors' attempted reassurances that it wasn't the worst date she'd been on, Phil didn't quite believe her. It was an evening full of stilted conversation, made worse by his lack of connection to anything pop culture. If she'd asked about politics, he could have managed with that. But that wouldn't have saved the date; it would have just been a dry evening. Dr. Taylors assured him it wasn't the worst date she had been on and Phil couldn't decide whether she was just lying to him to be nice. She had been lovely, if a touch quieter than he expected and there just… there wasn't much of a spark. 

Phil spent a night home, bitterly enjoying the solitude he found himself wrapped in. It was a relief when he went into work the next day to find that Jasper was back. His bald head was red with sunburn but he was grinning and as full of energy as he always was. Phil could never understand how the other man managed it. 

"Man, that Banner is full of surprises!" Jasper said, slumping into the empty chair across from Phil. For the first time in days, his office was free of Barton. It was odd. 

"What did he do?" Phil asked, grabbing a notepad. 

"He set up traps throughout the entire jungle. Every time I tripped one, it was this loud noise that would let him know where I was. And he just kept on trekking. He made it to Rio de Janeiro and I lost him." Jasper smiled apologetically. "I'm _beat_ Coulson, you have no idea. The man is a genius." 

"Well, we confirmed it was Banner at least?" Phil asked. "The rage monster?" 

"Definitely him, although he didn't make any appearances. This was all Banner." 

Well, there went their lead on Banner. "Has General Ross given up pursuing him?" 

"Lost him long before we hit Rio de Janeiro," Jasper said, waving a hand airily. "Turned tail back home. I expect he couldn't justify the expense costs of that many troops off American soil." 

"How are you doing –aside from the sunburns?" 

"Damn glad to be home," Jasper answered, grinning widely. "A little sore, in great need of a shower and a bath –you really have no idea. It's so humid over there I've got –" 

"Thank you Sitwell," Phil said dryly, hoping to cut his tirade off. "I don't need all the details. 

"Places that shouldn't ever be wet! I'm also jetlagged." 

"Stop by Dr. Novak's office and then get some sleep," Phil said, watching his friend with fond exasperation. 

"Aye aye sir," Jasper said, giving him a two finger salute as he got to his feet. "And stop acting like you've got more seniority than I do." 

Phil snorted. "I will when you do." 

Jasper snickered as he headed down to see his doctor. It hadn't been more than an hour before there was another presence in his office. And, surprisingly, it wasn't Barton either. It was Captain Rogers. 

"Can I help you, Captain?" 

"I think, actually, Agent Barton can." 

Phil blinked. "How so?" 

"I need some eyes in the sky. Director Fury said that Agent Barton is the best and he's been cleared to know about Hydra." Captain Rogers paused at that, leaning over to set some papers on Phil's desk. "What do you think?" 

Phil skimmed through the documents, mostly blueprints and satellite images of activity. On one of the transport boxes, the Hydra logo was as clear as daylight. Phil turned his attention back to Captain Rogers' action report, as delighted as always to see how detailed it was. The man had an excellent head for strategy. Phil shuffled the papers back together and held them towards Captain Rogers. 

"I think it's up to Agent Barton," he said, smiling. 

Captain Rogers grinned. "Glad to hear it, sir. Where might I find him?" 

"If he's not in his room, try the cafeteria or the range," Phil suggested. 

"Thank you Agent Coulson," Captain Rogers said, smiling as he took his papers back. He left the room. 

Captain Rogers was very different in person than how he appeared in the media. The news reporters liked to catch him and Stark together whenever they could and it was never more apparent than in those invaded moments. Captain Rogers hastily putting his arm around Stark's waist, Stark grinning cheekily at the cameras, tightness in his expression that wasn't often there. They weren't good for each other, but they were making it work. Captain Rogers' honor kept him there just as much as it made Stark shove the other man away whenever he could. Stark wanted to do it on his own, that much had always been apparent with how hard he had pushed himself to get through school and how much success he had. But few people looked to see beyond his persona, as the playboy Omega of Malibu. Captain Rogers was more relaxed, easy going and natural when he was out of the camera. One of Stark Industries public relations assistants must have given him a stern lecture because watching the Captain on screen it was obvious how hard he tried to never be speaking. Even the paparazzi had picked up on it, and would frequently attempt to harass him into saying something. So far, no one had succeeded. 

A few hours later and there was a new email, informing Phil that Clint had agreed to go with Captain Rogers. They were leaving in three –it wasn't a high priority hit, after all –and Captain Rogers had requested Phil to be on the communication systems when the mission went down. It wasn't all that unusual of a request. As a handler, he was qualified to run the communications of an op but Steve was more or less equally qualified. Phil skimmed down until he found where Captain Rogers had explained his reasoning for wanting another high level agent on hand. Just in case they found anything unexpected, since Director Fury had restricted all Hydra related ops in case they stumbled upon any of the Omega trafficking rings they were searching for. Phil looked over the time frame –expected mission completion time was only to take about twelve hours, at most up to thirty-six hours. Phil turned to his calendar, working out when the op would end at the latest and when he needed to be out of the office to deal with his Rut. There were no problems. Phil signed his name, agreeing to manage the communications system. 

Clint dropped in the next day with two cups of coffee and an easy grin. He didn't offer to help with paperwork this time, instead choosing to take up the entire couch. Every so often, he'd leave and bring back either another cup of coffee or food. If Phil didn't know better, he almost would have thought the agent was trying to court him. But it was Barton. Clint chatted easily about the sports and politics on occasion, but for the most part he kept to himself. Long before dinner, Barton had left. He didn't come back. Phil sighed and moved his completed paperwork to the side of his desk as he started searching through the Brazilian media reports, looking for any leads on Dr. Banner. There was nothing. Which was both a relief and disheartening at the same time –no one had died, which was good for both Banner and Brazil. But no leads meant that Captain Rogers was still just as far from knowing what had happened to change Dr. Banner. 

Phil sent the files onto Fury and was just as surprised when Fury sent Dr. Banner's back, marked with the symbol that was quickly beginning to haunt Phil's life. It was the potential symbol, the giant letter I stamped onto the cover sheet. There was no explanation. Which, likely meant, that Fury had encountered Banner at some point and been impressed by whatever the other man had to say. And Phil was left to back up his decision. He turned his computer off and returned home. 

By the time Agent Barton and Captain Rogers had arrived in Angola, Phil had managed to get exact coordinates on the suspected Hydra transport and confirm that it was still there. Barton was making snark on his comm line, a familiar drone of noise. Unlike most handlers in Clint's experience, Captain Rogers was another who didn't reprimand him for the banter. The two of them headed towards the base and Phil watched the green blinking light on his monitor, marking their location. Malanje was quiet at this time of night, which both agents took quick advantage of. Barton's green dot broke away from Captain Rogers' as planned, ascending the nearby water tower so he would have a clear line of sight. 

"Looks quiet," Steve commented, creeping towards the warehouse. "No sign of hostiles." 

"Looks deserted," Clint agreed quietly, likely scanning the environment. "No movement." 

"Proceeding," Steve said, as his green dot broke cover as he jogged over to the warehouse door. 

Even over the comm line, Phil could hear the heavy screech of squealing metal as Captain Rogers forced the warehouse door open. "Way to let 'em know we're here Cap," Clint drawled. "Least now I might have something to shoot." 

"Sorry," Captain Rogers fired back, no apology in his tone. "No sign of hostiles," he said warily. 

"Clear," Barton responded. 

Captain Rogers advanced into the warehouse and Phil held his breath, listening intently. He was here to provide support, should they need it. Either tactical, intelligence or firepower. Firepower was a last resort and would take hours to get into position, same as if they required an evacuation. They would have to be able to hold their own. Phil tapped on the keyboard, pulling up the blueprints for the warehouse, trying to place where Captain Rogers was onto the blueprints. Then there was the sound of Captain Rogers grunting as he hit the dirt, rolling back to his feet. 

"Hostile detected," he growled. "Woman. Appears unarmed. Definitely familiar with combat though." 

"Did she get the drop on you?" Barton teased. 

"I'm going to try and get her in your sight line," Captain Rogers said, completely ignoring Barton's commentary. 

"Copy that," Barton said, the usual cheer and snark in his tone replaced with mission readiness. 

"Do you see the cargo ships, Captain?" Phil asked. 

"Yeah, three of them. All of them have Hydra logos." 

Phil nodded, recording Captain Rogers' observation down. It wasn't long until the sound of fighting reached his ears again. The two combatants sounded like they were trading blow for blow. Barton huffed out a breath of frustration, but anyone who could go toe to toe with Captain America was more talented than they let on. Cap grunted in pain and Phil could hear what sounded like the woman's fist making contact with his stomach. Cap groaned again, but there was the sound of scrabbling hands on fabric and a woman's pained growl. 

"Barton, do you have the shot?" Cap barked, and it sounded like he was defending himself against a barrage of strikes. 

"No, I –damn it, I don't have a shot," Barton snarled. 

Captain Rogers grunted in what could have been pain or an acknowledgement and pushed himself harder. Phil examined the map; by the look of things, they were hovering just inside the warehouse door, just outside of Clint's view. 

"Fuck!" Barton cursed. "She ninja'ed him. I had her for a second." 

"It's fine," Cap panted. "She's in here somewhere." 

"It's a big warehouse," Phil commented, already pulling up thermal imaging over the warehouse. "You might want to try your left, Captain." 

Phil could just hear her voice when Captain Rogers attacked her position, a startled curse that was higher pitched than he had been anticipating hearing. But from the sound of it, she was giving Captain Rogers a run for his money. Cap yelped as he fell to the ground, slamming his fist into the dirt as he jumped back onto his feet. 

"You don't give up, do you?" asked the woman, her voice echoing clearly though the comm line. She spoke with a flawless American accent, unusual considering they were currently in Africa. 

"Nope," Cap replied and the sound of fighting picked up again. "Barton!" Cap called, as he bodily dragged the woman out of the warehouse. She was kicking and screaming. 

"I-I," Clint stuttered. 

Cap grunted as the woman made contact, flipping away from him, exposed in the warehouse courtyard. "Barton," Captain Rogers growled. "Take the shot." 

"We need to get the cargo secured," Phil said smoothly. Was Barton remembering all the times he had been forced to take a shot? Maybe he wasn't as ready for the field as he had insisted. "For all we know, it could be a group of Omegas or weapons. Neither of which we want to fall into Hydra's hands." 

"I don't have the shot," Barton said stiffly, unstringing his bow. The green light that was Barton went out. Immediately the back-up chip, located in his new quiver came to life. 

"Bullshit!" Cap called, whirling back to look at the water tower. Across from him, the woman gave a two fingered salute before launching herself at Captain Rogers. 

"Agent Barton," Phil said, disbelieving. "Agent Barton what are you doing?" Phil watched as the green mark descended the water tower. "You are disobeying a superior's direct order," he added, hoping that it might bring Clint back to his senses. 

It didn't. "Sorry," he said, shrugging his quiver off. "Trust me?" He didn't sound like he really believed what he was saying either. 

Watching the thermal images, hands clenched tightly, Clint removed the comm unit from his ear, tossing it towards Cap who was trapped underneath the smaller woman. From his comm, Phil could hear that he was winded and that the woman had a weapon on him. 

"Howdy partner," Clint said, keeping his voice light. "You mind not killing a national icon?" In a rare show of trust, Clint rubbed the back of his neck. 

The woman straightened, pulling back from the Captain. "I could be persuaded," she purred. 

"Barton?" Captain Rogers asked, disbelief heavy in his tone. 

Phil sighed heavily and resisted the urge to drop his head against the desk when he realized that Barton was most likely giving Captain America that dumb smile of his. "Trust me, Cap," he pleaded. 

The woman struck out and Captain Rogers groaned. "Wh-what did you drug me with?" he stuttered, pressing his hand to his neck. 

Fuck. Clint. Phil curled his hands into fists. "Captain Rogers?" he asked, worried. "What's your situation?" 

"They're escaping," Captain Rogers slurred, half sitting up. On the thermal image scan, Phil watched as his asset ran off with a Hydra agent. "She hit me with something. Like a dart? Strong stuff," he laughed weakly. 

"Back up is on the way," Phil promised, watching the screen warily. Barton and the woman were nowhere in sight. 

"What do we do about Agent Barton?" 

"We trust him," Phil replied grimly. 

_What are you doing Barton?_ Phil wondered, staring at the monitor in dismay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I think I have this figured out where I want it to go. Working out some of the details is gonna be fun, though. 
> 
> Ah, I love you guys. Have another chapter. <3


	9. Who Are You Really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were titling these chapters based on content, I would call this one 'Clint and the everyday kindnesses' I probably wouldn't, but the thought is there. Sometimes the smallest things make the biggest differences.

"They'll kill you for that," Natasha said, ducking down an alley. 

"No, they won't," Clint said stubbornly. Coulson wouldn't let them. "The captain'll be pissed and so will some other people. But it'll be fine." If he could pull off this insane plan. "What're you doing here anyways?" 

Natasha turned around, walking backwards as she shot him an unimpressed glare before turning back around. "What do you think?" 

Clint winced. "Going after Hydra," he filled in. 

"Yes." 

"Any word on Bucky?" 

"Nothing," she said tightly. 

Natasha led him down the winding alleys and abruptly came to a stop. Clint nearly crashed into her back and she took that moment to grab him, slamming him against the back of a building, a knife against his throat. 

"What are you planning?" she all but growled, green eyes flashing. 

"I want to help you take out Hydra," he said, forcing himself to relax. If she wanted to kill him, he'd be dead before he could stop her. 

Natasha pulled back slowly, narrowing her eyes at him. "You were with S.H.I.E.L.D. why would you want to team up with me?" She paused, searching his face for something. "I'm on the top of their most wanted list." 

Of course she was. "I want to help you take out Hydra," Clint repeated, stubborn. "I don't care about anything else. S.H.I.E.L.D. got to me first, so what? I took the first escape I found." 

Natasha wasn't just at the top of S.H.I.E.L.D's most wanted list. She was on a list all of her own. Shoot on sight. Clint had used his few days of freedom to do some digging, now that he was no longer a probationary agent. Now that he had a little power. Natasha wasn't someone who could be shot on sight. And if Clint had anything to do with it, he wasn't going to let her take the easy way out. Her fight with Cap had worn her out some, but there wasn't a mark on her body from what he could see. 

"I don't take sidekicks," she said, easily hoisting herself up onto the roof. 

Clint followed after her, "I'm asking to be your equal in this." 

"I don't need the help," she said, shoving him off the roof. 

By the time Clint had climbed back up, she had disappeared into the darkness. He tried to find her again, but she was good. There wasn't a clue left behind. Clint tucked his hands under his armpits and started the long walk back to the warehouse. Fuck, Coulson was going to be pissed. And Captain Rogers. If Captain Rogers had a bad side, then Clint was definitely going to be number one on that list. By the time he had returned to the warehouse, Cap was on his feet, examining the warehouse. Apparently he hadn't had any orders to purse. Which, maybe, was a good sign? Clint could see his bow and quiver lying next to a cargo box. Clint scuffed his feet against the soft dirt as he walked, intentionally drawing Cap's attention as he raised his arms in surrender. 

But Cap didn't even turn to address him. "What was that about?" There was tightness in his voice, in his shoulders that stopped Clint cold. Too many bad memories. 

Clint eased back a half-step. "I recognized her," he admitted uneasily. "We bumped shoulders a few weeks back. She got me out of a tight spot." 

"You disobeyed a direct order," Cap stated, his harsh voice cutting through the night's silence. 

"And I'm sorry about that," Clint said, bristling. "I made a different call. I wasn't going to shoot her." 

"She could have killed me." 

"She didn't!" Clint protested. 

Captain Rogers heaved a sigh, his body relaxing. "I don't like it," he said, turning to face Clint. 

Clint's stomach fell somewhere down by his feet. He wasn't really sure if he was going to be able to pick it back up because Captain America –Captain fucking America –had just given him a look of disappointment. _Fuuuuck,_ Clint would take anything but the disappointed look. Yelling, a punch to the face, anything would be better than that face. Clint wasn't even sure if anyone had ever looked at him like that in his entire life, but goddamn, he hoped no one ever did it again. 

"Wait here while I check the cargo," Cap said at last, walking into the warehouse. 

Clint nodded and resisted the urge to say 'Yes sir,' to the captain's retreating back. He gathered up his bow, quiver and his discarded comm unit. He dusted the comm off carefully before placing it back in his ear. "Hawkeye reporting in," he said, grateful when his voice didn't tremble. 

"Barton?" Coulson asked, surprised. 

"Target got away," Clint said, keeping his tone even. "Sorry for… running off." 

Coulson exhaled heavily. "ETA on extraction is nine hours off." 

"Understood, sir," Clint said quietly. 

"What happened?" Coulson prodded. 

"Saw an old friend. Lost her," Clint repeated. 

If Coulson had anything else to say, Clint didn't hear him. Captain Rogers walked out, shaking his head, a hand pressed to his comm unit. "Weapons supply." 

With a few brief words, Captain Rogers ordered Clint to secure the perimeter which he did. It wasn't until the sun was up that their extraction team arrived, ready to clean up their mess. And with them, they had brought Agent Coulson. Once the weapons were secured, everyone got into the quinjet. Steve marched into the cockpit and didn't leave until they were landing down in New York. Coulson didn't say anything, just watched Clint with an air of disappointment around him. Clint was the first one out of the plane, striding determinedly towards his room. Shit, he'd really screwed this all up. 

"Agent Barton," Coulson called. "My office." 

Clint didn't bother stowing his gear, instead marching himself straight to Coulson's office. It took the older agent longer to arrive and when he did arrive, it was without his bag. Clint gritted his teeth. Coulson unlocked his door, waving Clint in before shutting his door and taking a seat behind his desk. 

"Agent Barton, in the future, please tell me what you are planning before breaking regulation like that." Clint nodded stiffly. "Now, can you tell me what you were trying to do?" 

Clint looked down at his hands, folded on his lap. "Sir, I… I was hoping to recruit her." 

"The Black Widow?" he asked, incredulous. 

Clint nodded slowly. "She'd be perfect for here. She's great at infiltration and she's trained –she's a little rough around the edges but…" he shrugged. In one of the Hydra bases, Natasha had been caught but she claimed to work there and her confidence was so great the guards believed her act. She strangled them. 

Coulson sighed. "I can't not punish you for this, Barton. Breaking rank like that is a serious offence." 

Clint curled his hands into fists. "Yes. Sir." 

When Coulson didn't say anything, Clint looked up at the man. He was watching Clint, his hands resting on his desk. He didn't look angry. Maybe a little resigned, and tired. There were circles under his eyes. Clint felt a pang of regret deep in his chest. He'd been doing the right thing. Natasha would be a great asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. She didn't deserve to be killed after everything she'd gone through. 

"You want to recruit the Black Widow, despite all the people she's killed?" 

"Some of those kills were orders," Clint protested. "Some of them were revenge, sure, and it wasn't right. It isn't right. But she shouldn't be killed for it." 

Coulson sighed heavily. "I'll come up with something. Go to your room, Agent." 

Clint only hesitated a moment longer before fleeing to his room. Fuck, he'd fucked everything up. The next twenty-four hours passed in tense silence. Clint left his room once, done with waiting for Coulson and whatever shitty punishment he would come up with. Ignoring his growling stomach, he stalked down to the range only to be informed that his access had been temporarily revoked. Fuck but he just can't manage to keep a good thing going. One of these days they would give him the boot. 

"Agent Barton?" Clint turned towards the speaker, surprised to recognize Agent June. 

She smiled warmly. "It's good to see you up and about, Agent Barton," she said. "And good work on that mess in Bucharest. We got there just after you. Always nice to see a job well done." She dipped her head politely and continued on. 

For a long moment, Clint stared after her. Slowly, Clint packs his bow and gear away before turning and walking to the cafeteria. He hadn't paid attention to the time, doesn't even know what hour it is, but when he gets there he finds that the cafeteria is empty except for one individual. Stifling his groan, Clint nearly turned on his heels and walked back out. But his stomach was starting to ache and it had been a long time since he let himself go without food for so long. He _couldn't_ walk away now, not when he could see a covered tray left out with a hamburger and a slice of apple pie. The Americanism of it was going to drive him mad, even as he walked over to take the last plate. Because sitting at a table in the corner, in the middle of the night, entirely alone, was Captain Steve Rogers. 

Clint took a seat at the farthest possible location from the Captain, devouring his hamburger quickly before starting in on the apple pie. Despite his hurried eating however, the light steps of Captain Rogers were noticeable. Likely because, although appearing far from it, Clint was entirely focused on every move the Captain made. Back in Hydra, it would be expected that the officer in charge take strips off Clint's skin for his disobedience. But S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra were two very different organizations. And Captain Rogers and Captain America were one in the same. 

"Agent Barton," Cap said stiffly, stopping beside his table. There were dark circles under his eyes. 

"Captain Rogers," Clint replied, fighting his every instinct to get down on his knees and apologize. Grovel for forgiveness. He might have lost the battle, if he were still Hydra's pawn. But he was more than that. He locked his knees, kept himself seated on the cafeteria bench. 

"I'm sorry, about ordering you to shoot your friend," Cap said, sitting down across from Clint slowly. "Let me know next time? Before I do that." 

Clint gaped at him in surprise. 

"Agent Coulson told me about it," Cap continued, ignoring Clint's surprise. "I can have a bit of a temper, sometimes. And I don't like it when I don't know all the facts." He smiled, so genuine and apologetic. It was too much. 

"No, really, I should have –I should have said something," Clint bit out the words. "I just. I'm used to doing everything on my own, really. Teamwork is a new… thing." 

Cap nodded. "I can imagine. The Army trained me, alone to be this," he gestured to himself. "They wanted me to work as a solo operative but some communication got mixed up. I ended up with a team." Cap smiled down at his hands. "Well, you know the rest." 

"Not really," Clint said slowly. Was Captain Rogers really having this conversation with him? He wasn't going to pass up the opportunity. "I was working for the wrong side of the law when everything went down. I just saw a bit here and there in the papers." 

And suddenly, Clint was remembering something that had happened nearly two years ago. Or a year and a half ago. Clint wasn't entirely sure. Huddled together in their cardboard shelter, Bucky looking up at a picture of Steve Rogers as he received the Purple Heart and shook hands with important people. Probably the president. Clint hadn't paid attention. There was no way that Bucky had known Steve –Cap was a big shot Alpha. He probably had some rich folks, got handed around and wound up in the military following in his father's footsteps. Besides, Bucky was delirious at the time. 

"It was how I met Tony, actually," Steve said, not at all lighting up the way married folks were supposed to. 

"You don't look all… gushy, about him," Clint settled for saying. 

Steve smiled. "That's because I'm not. He and I aren't serious. We pose for the media. Avoid them when we can." 

"Why?" 

Steve explained it, about how he had gone in to save a group of Omegas, including Tony Stark. Only when he got there, Tony had escaped and lit half the camp on fire. It was the perfect cover to steal in and save the other Omegas. But it was Tony who had saved himself. Steve didn't meet Tony until afterwards, when he was being handled medals, knowing full well that the rescue of Tony Stark was contributed to him as an Alpha and stolen away from Tony. 

"His guardian, Obadiah Stane, took custody of Tony. And as an Omega, he can't legally inherit his company until he's a married man. I couldn't let Tony keep living his life as a sham, so I proposed and he accepted. When we're married, he inherits the company. He can get the recognition he deserves –not for being playboy or a party animal, but for his ingenious ideas." 

"Sounds like love to me," Clint teased hollowly. For an arranged marriage, Steve and Tony sounded like a better couple than his parents had ever been. For two men who didn't want to be married, who from the way Steve told the story, practically hated each other, they still managed the relationship better than his parents ever had with one another. 

Steve made a face. "We make it work when we're in public." 

Clint paused, realizing as he took a moment to gather his thoughts, that this meant Steve was trusting Clint not to say anything. He stiffened and slowly exhaled. "What exactly did Coulson say to you, about me?" 

"Just that your friend back there had freed you from Hydra." Steve leaned forward. "I was there, at the base. I saw what signs they'd left behind." 

Clint grimaced. At least Coulson hadn't told Steve everything. Someone like Steve surely had the clearance to know whatever he wanted –and Clint was painfully, gratefully thankful for his privacy. Ronin was his burden to bear. The least they could provide him was the power to decide whether or not to share his past. And the fact that Coulson had given him that power, despite his earlier behavior… Clint was just grateful. 

"Yeah, I've been through worse," Clint said roughly. "They didn't wanna fuck me over too badly." Steve nodded, covering a yawn. "What're you doing up this late anyways, man?" 

Steve flashed him an amused look. "Same thing as you, right?" he asked, standing up. "Not sleeping." 

"Yeah, point," Clint conceded, taking a bite of pie. 

"I think I'm going to the gym for a bit." 

Clint nodded and Steve headed down to the gym. Watching him go, Clint spent a moment wondering what kind of nightmares could keep a guy like Steve awake this late at night. And then he thought about the war that Steve had been fighting, out on the frontlines to defend men and women. To defend his country. After having sacrificed his family, after having given up his friends and his body to become a glorified lab experiment. Steve probably had a lot of reasons to stay awake at night, really. Clint finished off his pie and headed to his room. 

The next day, he wasn't sure when exactly, but Agent Singer was pounding on his door hard enough to knock it down. Clint practically slammed it open, glaring at the man on the other side. "Yeah?" he demanded. 

"We're going to Siberia. Pack your shit. We'll be gone for at least a month. You're with me." 

"Since when?" Clint demanded. Coulson always approved his missions and he usually called him to his office for a briefing before Clint was shipped out. 

"Five minutes ago. Grab your shit kid, come on. We don't got time for this." Singer pulled back, heading down the hall. 

But Clint knew of Agent Singer and knew that he'd be in more trouble if he tried to see Coulson. There was a chance the man had taken a day off, or that he was out of his office. It wasn't like Coulson lived in his office. Clint felt a chill crawl down his back. Coulson had said there would be a punishment for his disobedience. Was this it? Was he handing him off to Agent Singer? No, he couldn't be. Agent Singer was only a Level Four, he didn't have the necessary rank to be bossing agents around all the time. Clint grabbed his bags, collecting his bow and quiver on his way. He jogged to the quinjet, arriving just as Singer was getting their supplies packed up. The older man was grumbling under his breath. Despite his age, he was a fit field agent well known for taking down any agent who even mentioned his age. 

"Get on board, wheels up in ten!" Singer barked at him before turning back to one of the techs, likely arguing about the necessity of a box of flares. 

Clint sat, anxiety coursing through him. Was this his punishment? Being sent to Siberia with no warning? Or did Coulson have something more nefarious in mind? Singer walked on board, grumbling loudly under his breath. He opened one of the compartments, humming to himself in satisfaction as he sorted through the scarves and gloves. Right. They were heading to Siberia in the middle of January. It was probably going to be cold. Clint spared a moment to look at his bare arms. Long sleeves fucked with his aim. 

"Thought we'd be in the air by now," Clint joked, looking around the 'jet. 

"Yeah, we got one more incoming. Last minute addition or something." 

"Who?" 

"I got no idea. One of the top dogs, probably." 

And then Clint spotted who it was that was going to be joining him for the long ass mission and couldn't help his grin as Steve jogged onto the quinjet, apologizing profusely. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all. 

"Coulson's taking some time off," Steve explained. "He wanted you to know that the mission to Siberia is your punishment –something about how he remembered you bitching about the cold earlier?" 

Clint grinned in spite of himself. "Yeah, okay. And what are you doing here? Filling in for him?" 

"No, figured I should get used to how you operate," Steve said, stowing his gear away. "When I was in the army, I didn't spend much time with snipers or eyes in the sky. We were more covert than that –or, more stupid. Not sure really. We just kind of charged in where they pointed us." Steve smiled a little sheepishly. 

"I can definitely help with that," Clint found himself saying, staring at the captain in disbelief. And –for that matter, when exactly, had he stopped being Captain Rogers? 

Siberia was hell. For a punishment it was both creative and undeserving. Clint didn't even need to use his bow. He reluctantly accepted the rifle as a substitution, practicing team work and army maneuvers for hours in the middle of a blizzard with Steve. Their mission was an eyes-only op. Their target was a man by the name of Vikram Dashkov, a wealthy Russian entrepreneur who was also a famous hermit. He never left his house. Agent Singer had been assigned as a butler to the man (a fact that nearly had Clint doubled over laughing, but once Singer shaved and pulled on his monkey suit, yeah, he could pull it off). Clint and Steve had been assigned as back up, in case Agent Singer ran into a situation. Or to do some research as needed. In the month long operation, they'd only had to access the Internet archives once. But even then, as they were getting ready to head home a new order came down. Steve was needed back in California, something to do with Tony Stark acting out of control following the unexpected death of Obadiah Stane. Steve turned pale, grabbed his belongings and left with little more than a goodbye. Meanwhile, as Singer hadn't found any sign of threat, Clint was left behind. 

The operation went on for two and a half months before Singer found the threat he was looking for and dealt with him all within the confines of the businessman's house. Clint meanwhile was stuck in a cabin, four miles away from Singer and on his own. The television they'd been provided never worked quite right so Clint was stuck reading. He accessed whatever books he could find on the public domain to keep himself from going crazy. It was a relief to get back on the quinjet and head home. God, but he hated the cold. At least the seclusion meant that there was no one around to witness his Heat. 

When he got home the first thing he did was head directly to his room and stand under the hot shower until he couldn't bear it. The second thing he did was grab his bow and head to the range, which he was grateful to find that he had access to again. He fired until his fingers were numb and then continued on, testing his aim, pushing himself hard. It felt good to be mobile, where he had room to be active. Where he could be himself again. No matter how interesting scientific books were, they were too plentiful. Halfway through he would switch to history and then to mathematics and then to a cheesy action book. He didn't finish every last book, considering most of them were school text books available on public forums, but he read a fair bit. 

He returned to his room, finishing his routine off with a series of punishing acrobatics and exercise regimes. He was still in shape but it felt like it had been far too long. He'd never been that low active in his life, he was sure of it. He collapsed into bed, grateful that spring was well underway. In Siberia, they'd had a week of sun that burned all the snow away before getting snow and more snow. It was always snow. Clint was grateful to have real food and the first thing he did when he woke up was head to the cafeteria. He subtly scanned the crowd of agents –no sign of Steve. He continued on his way, and took the eggs benedict with relief. He was sick of pancakes, porridge and omelets which were about as much cooking skill as he could make on his own. Of which he'd only learned to make with the helpful use of a recipe book or two. Between Hydra, where there was no reason to cook, and S.H.I.E.L.D. with its convenient cafeteria, Clint had never had a reason to learn how to cook. Until he was stranded in Russia with nothing better to do. 

"Agent Barton," Coulson said, waving him into his office. 

Clint shuffled in, grateful that he'd at least been a week off. He had spent most of his free time in the gym and the range, and what time he didn't spend there was spent in the cafeteria pestering whatever agents he could find. He was goddamn relieved to have people to speak to again. Sure, Singer had done a few check-ins –so had Agent Coulson for that matter, but they were infrequent and all too brief. He still hadn't heard anything about Steve since his return, which was making him antsy about the Tony Stark situation. 

"Sir," Clint greeted cordially, flopping down onto Coulson's couch like he belonged there. 

"I've got a lead I thought you might want to take point on," Coulson said, grabbing a folder off his desk and handing to him. 

Clint opened the folder, freezing at the images before him. It was a picture of Natasha Romanov, just the side profile, her hair dyed blonde. The quality wasn't the best, but there were worse ones around. He skimmed the file, noting the aliases they had listed for her. He paused when he came to the last date on the page. 

"The call just came in. Agent Gagnon spotted her. We can make it to her last location within a few hours. Do you want to pursue her?" 

"Yeah," Clint answered roughly, nodding. "Yeah I-I have to try." 

"Agent Gagnon believes she was trying to get into some Department X archives," Coulson explained as he got to his feet. "He spotted her scoping out an old department of theirs. One of the few that we managed to obtain ourselves, of which is currently full of our old janitorial files. Harmless information but we have a few agents stationed to keep the place resembling how it used to operate in hopes that we can arrest anyone who comes snooping, like your friend." 

"I don't know how that would fool her," Clint admitted. "She seemed kind of paranoid." 

Coulson paused briefly, pulling his jacket on. "Honestly? She got herself into some trouble, we figure. She's been taking on assassination contracts and MI6 ran into her in the middle of an op to protect a diplomat. Not until after she had already killed the target she was after, of course. Since then, she's managed to hit the top tier of every major agency between here and the United Kingdom. She might be getting desperate." 

No doubt, especially if those agencies knew she was a Black Widow. "Do they know she's a Black Widow?" 

"They've taken to calling her the Black Widow, considering the men she's been killing were last seen to be headed to their beds with a gorgeous young woman. She hasn't been leaving a calling card, but that's distinct on its own." 

"I've got my gear with me," Clint said. "I'm ready to bring her in." 

Phil 

It was a short flight to Edmonton, Alberta. Clint was taking point on the mission and as such had decided he would be the one to make his way through the industrial complexes and gradually search through the city to find her. Phil on the other hand would be providing communications support and searching the web to see if the Black Widow had moved on. Clint set off through the dark complexes, waving over his shoulder jauntily before heading off. Phil was suddenly, painfully reminded of the paperwork that had crossed his desk nearly two months ago. Clint Barton's file had been marked down for the Initiative. After viewing the cafeteria surveillance, Phil discovered why but he still had mixed feelings about the whole thing. At twenty-two, Clint was the youngest of the candidates and while Fury was planning for the long-term, Phil wasn't ready to see another young man gunned down before his time. 

When Barton's stay in Russia had been extended, Phil had taken the time to call him and inform him explicitly that he had done his penance. It was supposed to be a quick mission and Phil always knew how Barton hated the cold. The extension hadn't been something they were anticipating. Normally Phil wouldn't have shared that with most other agents, he would have let them stew on it for a bit longer. Given Barton's background and the fact that consequences were synonymous with physical pain for him, Phil didn't mind being thorough. 

"You look like you've got a bug in your ear, Barton," Natasha said sultrily, her voice easily carrying through the comm. "Mind removing it?" 

Phil nearly ordered the cab to turn around, to drive him back to the industrial site. 

"And if I don't?" Barton asked. Phil could imagine that he was already reaching back to remove the comm. 

"I'll remove your ear," she said matter-of-fact. 

"That doesn't sound so fun," Barton said lightheartedly and Phil could just pinprick the audio interference as the comm was removed. 

"You wanted to talk?" she asked. "Lose the bug." 

"Sorry sir," Barton mumbled before crushing the comm link. 

Phil let out a shaky sigh he wasn't aware of holding. He trusted Barton. And despite how much every organization wanted their hands on Natasha Romanov; none of those organizations had Clint Barton –acquaintance of the Black Widow. Phil didn't blame him for not sharing what information he had on her. If he had, the information would have been in Fury's hands and there would have been a high chance that Fury would have ordered the hit on Natasha Romanov. Dead or alive, it would have bought S.H.I.E.L.D. some excess brownie points with MI6 and it was always handy to have a one up with that kind of organization. They didn't like dealing in American politics and had notoriously short tempers with any American agency dabbling on their homeland. The last attempt to bring the Black Widow to heel had been led by the FBI, with their tactical squad promising results as they bragged about Barney Barton's dealings with her in order to save his brother. It didn't get him anywhere, unsurprisingly. The next day the FBI went back to find that Barney was strung up in a net between two buildings, a sticky note pasted onto his chest. As far as Phil had heard, the note had simply been a drawing of a black widow placed directly over Barney's heart. 

Phil wasn't sure whether or not he should wish Barton better luck considering the fact that his brother had walked away alive was more than enough luck for one man meeting the Black Widow. Phil got out of the taxi, grabbing his bag and Barton's before heading into the hotel. S.H.I.E.L.D. had booked a room and everything already. Phil checked in, smiling at the attendant blandly before hurrying up to their room. He was eager to get out the equipment and check in on Agent Barton as best he could without relying on their comm link. It wasn't easy and Phil's fingers twitched in worry as he set up the police scanner the way Leo had taught him to. Expecting it to be silent was foolish, Phil realized as the sound of police chatter picked up immediately. Cars in pursuit of a robber –ambulance called to a scene –fire fighters responding –dispatch providing additional information to an officer requesting an address. The usual, nothing to mean anything had gone wrong. Phil sat down at the dining table, determined to wait them out. At some point, Barton would check in as only he could. 

What Phil wasn't expecting, however, was for a knock on the hotel window. He was only on the second floor, but no one went around knocking on windows. Especially when there wasn't a balcony or patio attached. Phil drew his gun and approached, peering outside only to sigh in relief and confusion when he could see Barton hanging from the window sill. Beyond him, Phil could make out the glow of bright blonde hair. 

"Could have used the door like a regular person," Phil huffed, opening the second portion of the window so as to not disturb Clint's grasp. 

"Aw, but where'd the fun be in that?" 

Phil watched, a little enviously, as Clint swung himself in through the window. And seconds later there was a second thump as Natasha landed much more delicately. 

"Hello Ms. Romanov," Phil greeted, offering her a bland smile. 

"You are Coulson?" she asked, green eyes appraising him. 

"Yes." 

"I have killed many people. What is stopping you from paying me back?" 

Clint bristled, stepping in front of her. "I wouldn't let him for one." 

Natasha pushed him aside easily, shooting him a glare that kept Barton rooted to the spot. 

"You have a unique skill set, one that you have unfortunately been forced to use with no say. At S.H.I.E.L.D. we have an interest in taking down Hydra as well as stopping other, similar organizations from taking power. You would be able to choose who to kill or not kill; the choice would be up to you. And if you didn't want to be involved in death at all, all we would ask would be your cooperation. Your skills would be valuable as a technical analyst and whatever information you currently possess would be a benefit." Phil paused, noting the way her eyes had narrowed. "In answer to your question, what's stopping me is the knowledge that you could kill me long before I could get a hand on my gun. Secondly, because I trust Agent Barton's decisions and most importantly because I think you know you want to be doing something more." 

The assassination contracts had done her no favors. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a stoop to her back that hadn't been there in the camera footage they had recovered nearly two months ago. Her skin was pale and when she eyed Phil with something akin to respect or marvel, he could see how exhausted she was. 

"You'll have time to make your –" 

"I won't sleep with anyone," she said, her voice rough. The way her eyes glinted dangerously, Phil could see that the deadly Black Widow was just underneath her surface. 

"You will never be asked to do that," he said vehemently. "Your employment contract will be tailored for you specifically." 

"Part of my contract, is that I don't kill without seeing the file. Seeing what the guy –or girl –has done. I can turn down any file I want, consequence free," Barton explained. 

Natasha settled, nodding slowly. "I will meet with this director of yours. He is the one with the power for the contracts?" 

"Yeah, Fury," Barton answered. "He's kind of great, once you get over how scary he is. Kinda reminds me of you Nat." 

Without even looking at him, she punched his shoulder. Hard enough that Agent Barton was wincing and rubbing his shoulder. Natasha's lips twitched into something close to a smile. Phil quirked a smile of his own as he gained an insight into Barton he hadn't expected to get. It wasn't just because Natasha had saved him, had gone through a similar traumatic past, but also in part –even if he wasn't aware of it yet –because he was infatuated with her. Phil looked between them, sincerely hoping that it worked out well for the both of them and didn't end up imploding the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. There were surprisingly few fraternization rules in S.H.I.E.L.D. the main points were that romantically involved agents could not be sent into the field on the same op and secondly, that regardless of how their break-up worked out, they would be expected to manage their issues. On the flip side of things, it was abundantly clear that there would be no fraternization accepted between assets and handlers as this would impede the handler's ability to make objective decisions. Every asset had a secondary handler –that was usually predetermined in case their primary handler died unexpectedly, but rather that make up new rules for fraternization it was decided to allow the secondary handler to step in. It was all outlined in the S.H.I.E.L.D. guidelines for assets and handlers. Every agent knew. 

"Did I hear you refer to Director Fury as being intimidating?" Phil asked, amused. "He'll be so pleased to know." 

"The leather coats and the eyepatch go a long way towards it," Barton grumbled, grinning sheepishly. 

"Did you ever think that what's under the eyepatch might be more intimidating? And that he wears the patch for the benefit of others?" 

"No, sir, I hadn't." 

Phil glanced at Barton. "Consider it next time." Sunglasses were hell on Fury's depth perception and a monocle wasn't exactly going to hide the scarring. An eyepatch was the next best solution. 

"Yes sir." 

It was a matter of a few hours for Phil to arrange a flight back to New York and contact Fury, making sure they would have a secure room available for them to question Natasha and prepare her to join the ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. Barton's casual flirtation with her grew increasingly more annoying as Natasha ignored most of what he said except to offer corrections or veiled threats. Nothing seemed to deter Barton. But, for her part, Natasha seemed more amused than anything else. Which was probably a good sign for Barton, all things considered but Phil could have dealt with _less_ flirting. It made for an exhausting eight hours, no matter how charming Barton was. Getting into Headquarters was a relief, as Phil escorted Natasha to where Fury was waiting. 

"Unarmed guards?" she asked, looking up at Fury from her eyelashes. "Just for me? How sweet." The Southern drawl she affected was practically perfect and if Phil didn't know better, he would have been fooled. 

Fury blinked at her. "Care to return the favor, Natalia?" 

"Natasha," she corrected, smoothly drawing two handguns from the confines of her purse. She handed them to Fury, meeting his gaze fearlessly as she drew three knives out and handed them over. 

"Made it through airport security with all this?" Fury asked, amused as he headed into the building. 

"They're not very thorough," Natasha replied. 

Phil privately agreed as he followed the two of them. Agent Barton brought up the rear, wisely keeping silent as he headed for his room at the earliest possibility. Fury brought them to one of the private offices where he sometimes held staff meetings. It was practically comfortable. Phil let Natasha decide on her seat before settling into his own. 

"You are here to interrogate me?" she inquired, examining her nails. 

"A few questions," Fury agreed. "We can hammer out your employment contract while we're at it." 

"I will not sleep with anyone," she said, eyes flicking between the two of them. "I want to see what they've done, until I decide whether or not I can trust you –like Barton. And I will not work with men." 

"Done," Fury said, like it wasn't a major concession. All things considered, it really wasn't. 

Natasha stared at him disbelievingly. "I want it on paper. In my hands." 

"You'll have it by tomorrow morning," Fury agreed patiently. It was more patience than he typically showed. 

"And what do I get if you break these terms?" 

"Compensation, immediate annulment of your workplace contract and freedom to act on your own," Phil listed off easily. "S.H.I.E.L.D. would forfeit all rights to pursue you for any information you were in possession of." It wasn't easy to prove, as they had to protect their assets and the international community and they held a lot of secrets for those two reasons alone, but it had been done before. The decision making was removed from S.H.I.E.L.D. and sent on to the nearest judge with the basic facts as determined by both the employee and the employer's lawyer. Both sets of data would then be examined by the judge and his word was law. 

"And what do you want in return?" 

"I want you trained as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. I don't think we'll have much to teach you, but teamwork is essential here," Phil said gently. "Agent Barton had to go through it as well." 

"What else?" she asked. 

"Medical clearance is required," Fury added. "To make sure you aren't on any drugs, that you have no injuries to impede your progress –if you do have any, our doctors will do everything they can to repair the injury. If that doesn't work, then we'll look at finding you a place outside of the field." 

Natasha nodded slowly. "That is acceptable." 

"And the only thing I will ask for here is any and all information you have on Hydra." 

"I want the Red Room destroyed," Natasha said. "And I want to be the one to do it. They are the ones that trained me and others like me. But they are impossible to find. They never stay in one place –they trained me, and even I could not find them." She huffed, frustrated. "They hide within Hydra, following them around. Hydra does not care much for me. I scare them too much." 

"Any enemy of Hydra is a welcome agent," Phil said. 

Natasha smiled at him politely. "What I can tell you about Hydra is not much. I can tell you the location of bases, about the order of command. It always comes from a higher up and it always takes time for the order to reach us." She paused. "I know Hydra has connections to the military. They were able to involve me in Project Rebirth." 

Mystery solved. "Natalie Rushman," he supplied, smiling grimly. "The missing test subject." 

"I am not quite like your Captain America," she said, nodding sagely. "I did not change physiologically like he did. But I am faster, stronger than the average. My orientation did not change either, if you were wondering." 

"Good to know," Fury said. "Tell me how exactly they got you involved in that project? If Hydra has any of the data –" 

"It is all inconclusive. There was no stable test subject," she said flippantly. "Banner became a half-beast, even if it remained in hiding for a few years. He can never keep control of it for long. Rogers was their best result. Blonsky was a nightmare, what a neat cover-up the government gave him. And of course, there was the one who didn't make it out. Schmidt." 

No one, not even the scientists themselves, had been sad to see Schmidt die. Some of the military men were grouchy, but mostly due to lost data more so than because they cared about the man. The research notes they'd left behind had been quite explicit. 

"No one mourned him," Phil pointed out. 

"Least of all us," Natasha said bitterly, shuddering. "I will give you every Hydra location I know of, if you promise me one thing." 

"You can be assigned to destroy them with a proper S.H.I.E.L.D. team," Fury agreed. 

Natasha nodded, leaning back in her chair. "Good. I will give them to you, when I have my papers in hand. To read for myself." 

"You get to sign them too," Fury pointed out. "I'll send you two copies. Agent Coulson will lead you to a medical examiner and tomorrow once I have your signed paper and those locations, you can begin your training." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter things will get interesting. I'm looking forward to that.
> 
> Also, it's two am in the morning here. I'm very tired. But the chapter is complete as of tonight.
> 
> Random fact: I almost had Wade Wilson as the deceased but changed my mind so it was Schmidt instead.


	10. I Bet My Life

In a month, Natasha had cleared every obstacle S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her and developed a reputation among the new junior agents. And of course, by being her friend and perhaps one of the only willing sparring partners available, Natasha's popularity and infamy had left Clint with a reputation to match. The weirdest thing of all about somehow ending up friends with Natasha meant that the junior agents who worshipped the ground she walked on had extended their hero worship to Clint. Although Clint was technically a junior agent, he didn't spend much time with anyone he had been trained with considering he was mostly assigned to work with the senior agents. Hopefully they would do the same with Natasha. Despite his busy schedule and Natasha's equally occupied one, they both managed to find time to spar. It was refreshing to fight with someone who was better at it than he was. Most of the senior agents and specialists didn't get much down time, so unless it was for qualifications, the junior agents seldom saw the more experienced fighters. Clint could relate to the senior agents' struggles, like Agent Coulson who simply didn't have the time and probably couldn't have made the time if he wanted to. All in all, it meant that it had been a long time since someone bested Clint quite so easily. 

And with Natasha gleefully pounding him into the mats, some of the junior agents started getting braver. In particular, Bobbi Morse. After about a week of watching him getting his ass handed to him, she stepped up, blue eyes twinkling. (Coulson was out doing some secret mission for Fury and no one had contacted him about any jobs so he was enjoying his free time as he wanted). 

"Fight me," she said, hardly a question and most definitely a challenge. 

Clint took a long swig of his water bottle and nodded his assent. Natasha flashed him a smirk as she stepped off the mats and stood with the rest of the junior agents. None of them knew about her identity as Black Widow, but all of them knew there was something different about her. Clint capped his bottle and set it aside, getting into a fighting stance. He hadn't seen Morse fight before, but from the way she moved to get into position she wasn't altogether unfamiliar with it. The title of junior agent encompassed any agent who hadn't been in the company for three years whereas probationary agents were the agents who were still going through training. Often, it was easy for probationary agents to get included as junior agents because while they were still students some of the more specialized agents –like Clint was –they could serve as a junior agent. Further exceptions to being a probationary agent were if the agent in question had had a prison sentence converted into years of service; for those years, they were treated as a probationary agent at all times. 

Bobbi moved first, taking a running start at him –a move she had to have picked up from Natasha. Clint sidestepped her smoothly, but she lashed out, her foot landing squarely between his as she tripped him up. Clint stumbled aside, narrowly throwing himself into a cartwheel to avoid letting Bobbi chase him off the mats. Clint put his arms up, guarding against her punches as she launched herself at him. Unlike Natasha and Steve, her punches didn't carry extra muscle but they were strong enough Clint could still feel them through his protective gear. Clint shoved his arms at her, catching her arm and throwing his body weight against her. Her left fist clipped his jaw but he carried through, grabbing her arm and starting to throw her. It wasn't a move he could have used on Natasha; for one because she was surprisingly sturdy and secondly because she would have climbed him like a tree and choked him out with her thighs. Bobbi yelped, startled, but grabbed onto him just in time to drag them both down to the mats. They both managed to save themselves at the last minute, resembling a couple of adults playing twister as they had managed to save their descent by landing in a bridged position, despite the fact that their arms were still tangled. It was luck that neither of them had a pinky out of place or someone would have been out of the match already. 

"What was that?" Clint huffed, moving his arm away from hers carefully. 

Bobbi bounced back onto her feet with a grin. "A trick," she offered. "Usually takes the other guy down with me." 

Clint got to his feet. "Gonna have to try harder than that," he retorted. 

Bobbi grinned and feinted towards him and the fight was on. While his matches with Natasha could drag out, they were mostly him strategizing and trying to outlast each previous bout he went through with her. Bobbi wasn't quite evenly matched. She wasn't as fast or as experienced but she was a natural fighter and likely gymnast, considering the routines she kept pulling to avoid letting Clint get her out of the ring. When he was sparring with Natasha, he didn't hardly have room enough to breathe let alone taunt her but Bobbi had started hanging back, trying to lure him into a favorable position for her. Frustrated and already nursing several bruises from her quick attacks, Clint remembered the first sparring match he and Steve had engaged in. Clint shifted his position, smirking to himself. Bobbi was about to be very offended, as Clint had been when Steve did it to him but he was tired. And hungry. Clint ran at her, catching her as she danced away with one hand on her arm as he dropped to the ground, throwing her over his shoulder. Clint followed through with a shoulder roll, crouching over her as he put his hand around her throat. Bobbi tapped out, breathless and staring up at him. 

"What was that?" Bobbi demanded, sitting up. 

Clint held out his hand. "Something a friend taught me," he explained grinning. 

It wasn't exactly a fair move, and it had no practicality in the field unless the enemy combatant had a bomb and you wanted to get blown up first to protect your allies. Which was probably why Steve knew the technique –he seemed like the kind of guy who would throw himself onto a bomb to save others. Natasha didn't look impressed, unsurprisingly, but the corner of her mouth was quirked up. Bobbi grabbed his hand and Clint hauled her to her feet. 

"You're a natural," Clint informed her, honestly impressed. 

"No thanks to you," she teased. 

"Sorry, hunger trumps sparring," Clint said with an easy grin. 

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Well you can spar with me anytime," she said, winking at him before sauntering over to join her peers. 

On down time, Clint would normally sleep in late before heading to the cafeteria but with Natasha around, she made sure he was awake early in the morning so they could spar before he could even think about breakfast. Clint left the gym, hitting the showers with relief before changing. By the time he was out, Natasha was already waiting for him, hair dried and clothes immaculate, breakfast in hand. Had Clint been like that two years ago, when he was with Hydra? As a teen, Duquesne used to monitor the water because he was an ass. He had it set on a timer; at ten minutes, the water would turn cold and then cut off. In his whole life, before he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. his water use was monitored. After being on the streets for so long and being so desperate to get clean, that habit was the easiest one to break. It was possible it wasn't quite as easy for Natasha. Clint didn't say anything to her about it as he headed to the cafeteria. 

"Working with Hill's not so bad?" Clint asked, glancing at her. 

"She is strict," Natasha answered carefully, "but also fair. She makes it very clear, what her expectations are and what the consequences for not living up to them are." 

"Yeah, I like that about her too." 

Natasha hummed noncommittally as Clint stood in line to get breakfast. He grabbed a bowl of cereal and threw in a handful of berries before moving down the line to take a seat at a mostly unoccupied table. The three agents seated there weren't familiar to Clint, but two of them were Level Fours and the other was a Level Five. Clint and Natasha sat down unobtrusively at the opposite end of the table from them and Clint took the moment to savor his breakfast. It was a rare day where he could have breakfast undisturbed, excluding this week. This week was practically a vacation. Actually, considering that, he wasn't even sure if he'd ever had a vacation in his life. He was pretty sure he hadn't. He was uninterested in the other agents' conversation, easily tuning them out until he caught wind of their aggressive tones and the way Natasha was coiling her body like she was resisting a fight. 

"…son's a total asshole. If that stick was shoved any higher up his asshole, it could be Fury's dick!" 

"You know," Clint said casually, carefully. "I don't think Fury would appreciate you talking about him like that." 

"What the fuck's it matter to you?" snorted the Level Five. "Unless you're trying to suck Coulson's dick too like that last probie." 

"What." Clint couldn't even articulate his shock and rage into a question. Honestly, it didn't even deserve one. 

"Dude's a fucking asshole," one of the Level Fours agreed. 

"He assigned Fergus here to the middle of fuckin' Iowa. There ain't anything there but fuckin' corn." 

"I'm not a probie," Clint said through clenched teeth. "And whatever you did to get assigned to Iowa must've been something awful," Clint mocked. "Oh god, dreaded Iowa!" he turned to Natasha, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. Iowa was more than corn –there were circuses and alcoholics and nothing but bad memories out that way. 

"The fuck did you say to me probie?" the Level Four demanded. 

"I don't think I said anything to you," Clint retorted, barely glancing at the man. "Pretty sure I said it to your friend." 

Clint tensed as he heard one of the agents getting up –a quick check out of the peripheral of his vision and yup, it was the other Level Four –the not-Fergus one. "You better show me some respect probie or I'll wipe the floor with you." 

Clint snorted and shared an amused glance with Natasha. "Yeah?" he asked, getting to his feet. "I'd like to see you try." 

It was the Level Four who struck first. He was fast though and his blow glanced across the bridge of Clint's nose. Nothing to be worried about. Clint smirked through the blood and had the satisfaction of feeling his fist connect with the agent's cheek. The man stumbled back, rubbing at his jaw. Within a few hours it would be a mottled mess of purple and black bruises. 

"Bastard." 

The guy spat on the floor before edging in on Clint again, more cautious this time. A quick glance around the cafeteria proved Clint's suspicion that they were the main attraction and no one was going to stop them. Natasha smiled, her hands folded and her head resting on them as she watched Clint. Trying to take advantage of Clint's apparent distraction, the agent attempted a roundhouse kick. It was a risky and overconfident move. In five seconds Clint had him in a chokehold. He tapped out and Clint slowly let go, stepping back. Fergus hauled his friend back onto his feet, shooting Clint a dirty glower but he was content to let things be. Clint relaxed slowly, turning towards Natasha when he noticed the Level Five getting to his feet. 

"You gonna let a probie get away with that kind of attitude, Rumlow?" asked the Level-Four-Not-Fergus. 

"No, don't think I will," he said, rolling his sleeves up. 

What an asshole. Had to go all out for the showmanship. But that was the kind of guy Rumlow was, if the rumor mill was true. He liked to make things as showy as he could make them, but he was good at his job. He'd only recently been promoted to Level Five, if Clint remembered. Agent Singer hadn't thought highly of him. 

"I'm a Level Three," Clint said, exasperated. "I'm a junior not a probie." 

"I look like I care?" Rumlow drawled. "We'll take this to the gym. Unless you're too chicken for it, probie." 

Fuck him. Clint smirked. "You wish." He'd already had an early morning workout. He wasn't sure whether to be grateful or pissed off that he hadn't gotten to finish his breakfast before being dragged into this mess. 

Everyone in the cafeteria watched as they passed. The two Level Fours trailed along behind them and behind those two clowns was Natasha, still appearing amused. As they left the cafeteria, Clint wasn't surprised to find that more than half its occupants had followed them down to the gym. Rumlow didn't bother to change so neither did Clint. The juniors who were still practicing scattered out of the way, eyes wide. He wasn't surprised to see that Bobbi was still there, throwing punches at a punching bag. Rumlow took his stance in the center of the mat and Clint followed to stand across from him. 

It was Natasha who stepped forward through the ring of onlookers to take a moment to meet his and Rumlow's gaze. She nodded, once. "Go." Her voice didn't carry but it didn't have to either. 

Rumlow didn't waste any time, lunging for Clint. Clint darted back, skittering along the edge of the mats. Rumlow stopped; their positions were the reverse of how they started. Rumlow didn't look impressed. 

"Not even gonna fight me like a man?" he sneered.

Clint narrowed his eyes and set his stance firm. "Come and get me then." 

Rumlow approached, feinting like a footballer, like he was going to trick Clint into misjudging his movements or something. Although, maybe that was just who Rumlow was. A spoiled upshot Alpha who'd been a star football player in some hick town that no one cared about after he moved on. Army would've been a nice fit for him, really. Clint surged forward, slamming his fist against Rumlow's forearms as he blocked the hit. Rumlow struck –and they really should have established some rules here –he wasn't wasting time or energy as his fist landed squarely against Clint's ribs. Clint grunted, dodging Rumlow's next punch as he dropped into a crouch and swept his leg out, tripping Rumlow. The guy went down and as Clint moved to put him in a hold, Rumlow twisted and threw Clint down on the mat beside him and suddenly they were grappling for position. Not just for Rumlow to put Clint in his place, but also to purely dominate Clint. It was rarely done between Alphas and Omegas unless there was reason for a public occurrence to show –like if the Omega had been cheating and the Alpha wanted to make sure everyone knew it. 

Clint snarled and fought harder, catching a glimpse of Rumlow's smug grin. Clint didn't relax his body immediately as that would have given the game away but he let out a grunt that wasn't entirely faked as Rumlow shoved his arm onto the mat. Clint relaxed his arm, pretending as though it was injured. If Rumlow wanted to make this dirty, make this into something it definitely wasn't, Clint could play that game up. Alphas always fell for it. Even Betas could fall for it. Clint let Rumlow put him three-quarters into the desired position –kneeling, head tucked down against the chest, arms pinned behind his back –and as Rumlow reached to grab his other arm, Clint slammed his elbow into Rumlow's solar plexus and rolled onto his back as he crawled to his feet. Rumlow groaned wheezily, a hand across his stomach, eyes burning with anger. 

So many people tried to use angry eyes as an intimidation technique but it was one that hadn't worked since he was living at home with his father. His dad used to make him scared with just one look –eyes glassy with alcohol, smug smirk in place and his hands shaking with rage. Chisholm scared him a few times that way, but that was mostly because Clint hadn't run fast enough to get away. Those days there had been hell to pay. Afterwards, with Duquesne, the man's punishments were severe but nothing compared to the Interrogators. And the Interrogators just had deadened, dispassionate eyes. Excluding his father and those times with Chisholm, angry eyes were definitely the least scary thing someone could throw his way. 

"We done?" Clint demanded, staring him down. 

"You wish. We're over when someone taps out," Rumlow growled, still out of breath. 

And they were fighting again. Although it was less like sparring with Bobbi –there had been no rage, just a willingness to learn and a healthy curiosity. This was all about power, dynamics and dominance and Clint was not going to let anyone put him in that position again in his life. Not even if it was to ask someone to marry him –he never bent knee to _anyone._ It was something Chisholm had liked and too many Hydra officers enjoyed. The Winter Soldier used to make him do it. They would make him kneel, arms behind his back, balance perfect and they would set their hand around his neck and squeeze. Just to remind him who had the power. Sometimes they would squeeze too hard; sometimes it was just a show. For all that the Winter Soldier was an Omega; he was fair when he did it. Clint had seen him take down Alphas and Betas equally. But never a superior officer. Clint didn't know what instinct had created this display of dominance but for whatever reason it existed, Clint hated it to its very core. 

Clint struggled and Rumlow struggled harder. They fought hard and dirty and mean. Clint bit his forearm; Rumlow ripped a fistful of hairs from the top of his head. They kicked and punched and there was no end in sight when the gymnasium doors slammed open and the entire crowd parted. Clint was aware, but he wasn't going to give Rumlow the satisfaction of taking the win just to see who had entered. It was obviously a higher ranked officer because everyone scattered, so possibly Hill or someone of an equal rank. 

"Enough." There was no shouting or yelling, but Clint dropped away from Rumlow all the same, staring at Coulson. His voice had cut through the room and Clint had no reason to fight it. Beside Coulson stood Maria Hill, the second or third highest ranked officer in all of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

Rumlow on the other hand obviously had other thoughts as he reached a hand towards Clint and Clint reacted, catching his fist and shoving him back. Rumlow snarled and advanced towards him again but Maria got there first, sucker punching Rumlow hard enough in the face that he fell to the mat and stared at her in shock. Maria bared her teeth, reproachful and warning all in one. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was an Alpha; sometimes it was impossible to ever forget. 

"Rumlow, my office. Now," she barked. Rumlow got to his feet, neither hurrying not dragging his feet about it as he followed her out of the gym. 

"Barton," said Coulson, disapproval heavy in his tone. "My office." 

Clint ducked his head and resisted the urge to meekly say 'yes sir' and instead followed him in silence, his hands shoved into his pockets. Halfway to Coulson's office and Clint was aware of the ache in his hands and the rest of his body. His lip was split and bloody, stinging every time he so much as breathed wrong. His nose had stopped bleeding but he could feel the dried blood sticking to it. Fighting wasn't wrong –he hadn't even started either of the fights really. So Coulson couldn't be too pissed at him, right? Clint glanced up, at the tightness in Coulson's shoulders and the wrinkles in his suit, his quick, hurried steps and the fact that he was walking at least three paces faster than Clint could manage. Yeah. No, Coulson was definitely pissed. Coulson opened his door with so much force it was a small miracle Coulson caught the door before it slammed against the wall. He waved Clint in and Clint took the chance to glance at his face, nearly wincing as he did so. Coulson's face was a blank mask. Definitely didn't bode well then. 

Coulson followed him in, shutting the door with a quiet snick before he walked over to his desk. "What was that display about?" he asked tersely. 

"The guy in the cafeteria was badmouthing and I called him on it," Clint said hesitantly. "Didn't like that or whatever and anyways, he wanted a fight." 

"So you gave it to him?" Coulson asked sharply, cutting in. 

"He wasn't gonna let me go without doing something," Clint protested. "It was over quick. But then he talked to Rumlow and Rumlow thought I was being disrespectful or whatever." Clint paused, glancing at Coulson's stony mask in concern. "Look, he wanted to dominate me in that fight and I wasn't gonna let him." Clint wrapped his arms around him, sinking onto the desk chair. The usually familiar office didn't feel quite so comfortable anymore. 

Coulson sat down slowly. "I sent you to Siberia so you could learn something while you were there." 

"That was about trust," Clint filled in, desperate to at least get the answer right. "You can't send me back for this. I didn't even start the fights." 

"Doesn't sound –or look –like you tried to discourage them either," Coulson pointed out. 

"So it's my fault they wanted a fight?" Clint asked, incredulous. 

"It's your fault for agreeing to it," Coulson agreed. "We are all adults here at S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Barton and we do not resolve our personal problems by swinging fists." 

"Well someone should tell _Rumlow_ then." 

"Agent Hill is taking care of that, I imagine," Coulson said coolly. "We aren't here to talk about Agents Rumlow or Hill right now, Barton." 

Clint stared at him, shocked. "What do you want, then?" 

Coulson sighed, his bland mask chipping away. "I want you to be sorry," he explained tiredly. "I want you to know we aren't Hydra. I want you to know that fighting like that isn't permitted regardless of what those agents say or do. I want you to make a good impression on Agent Romanov for us. I want a great deal of things, Barton." 

"I'm not sorry!" Clint snapped. "He was saying shitty things about you –like he has any idea how bad it is!" Clint scoffed. "If you're the worst person S.H.I.E.L.D. has on their payroll then that puts the good ones into sainthood –but judging by those assholes, you aren't the worst on their payroll." Clint paused, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. "Honestly, you're probably the best." He was never one to leave something unfinished. The anxiety that was clawing up his stomach was just as unpleasant though. 

Coulson exhaled, sitting down slowly. "Barton –" 

"And look, I've never mistaken you guys for Hydra, alright? It was a shitty thing to say in front of Fury but I just felt like I didn't have a choice. I don't get the chance to make a lot of them, okay? I know S.H.I.E.L.D. is different. I didn't get into the fight because I thought it was the only way to 'resolve' the issue or whatever." He shrugged. "I just didn't see talking it out was gonna work." 

"Barton, you don't have to get in fights over me. They're free to say what they want." 

"They are," Clint agreed, leaning forward. "And I'm free to deck 'em in the face if I want. They're spoiled rich shits, Coulson. I'm not gonna put up with that for you or any other agent round here who's worth their paycheque." 

"I appreciate it, but I don't need you to defend my honor," Coulson said gently. 

Clint snorted. It had nothing to do with that. Or maybe a little to do with it. Coulson was the one person at S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint trusted and relied on. He respected Coulson, more than he respected even Fury. For all that Fury was authoritative and demanding, Clint knew next to nothing about the guy. He wouldn't mourn Fury's death; he had no personal connection to him. But he had a great deal of healthy respect for the man. The way he could command people with his presence, the way he held himself, the fact that he was an Omega in such a high position –there were plenty of things to respect about Fury. But Fury wasn't the one who slept in his office, who spent every waking moment dedicated to catching up on paperwork, on making sure his agents were being treated appropriately. Fury didn't go around teaching people like Clint how to trust again. That was all Coulson. And Coulson probably wasn't even aware of what that meant to Clint –honestly, Clint wasn't even sure he could describe how much it meant to him. But Coulson was always there. Even when he screwed up, like when he deviated from the plan in Angola, Coulson had been fair. 

"Of course you don't, sir," Clint said, leaning back. 

Coulson sighed heavily. "But you're going to do it anyway?" 

"Absolutely, sir." 

"Well then, I guess I'd better find a way to keep you busy, hadn't I?" he asked, just a little wryly. "Go see Dr. Taylors. Make sure everything's in working order and then you're confined to your room for the day." 

"Sir." Clint nodded and left Coulson's office. 

Phil 

Phil turned back to look through the reports from California. If it weren't for Steve's eyewitness report, Phil wasn't sure he would have believed it. And honestly, he still wasn't entirely sure that Steve's report was an accurate account. Or if it would ever be an accurate report, considering an assassin had broken into the mansion and Tony Stark hired the assassin to kill Obadiah instead. At least, that was how it read if one read in-between the lines. Phil set the report down slowly. And following Obadiah's death, the inheritance was rightfully returned to Tony. Colonel Rhodes and Pepper Potts both made sure of it. However, no one was prepared for what Tony was going to do next. He immediately shut down the weapons development and manufacturing that Stark Industries had been involved in, threw on the most expensive suit he owned and made his way through every last club in Malibu. He was never spotted alone and in those forty-eight hours that he was considered missing, he was never spotted with the same person twice or sober. He hit them hard and fast, came and went before photographers could really grab an interview with him. Steve was left chasing after him, stumbling into frantic paparazzi crowds demanding to know whether Steve's engagement with Tony was still intact or not. 

An issue that Tony answered for them all the next day when he strode out of his mansion, buck ass naked, and lit the documentation on fire. He chased Steve out of his hotel and in no uncertain terms explained that he never wanted to see him again. Of course, the paparazzi managed to be on scene for this escalation. Some of the more liberal Omega Rights groups were heralding him as a new age hero while other conservative groups and Alphas were in an uproar. Tony threw them the middle finger, got in his Ferrari and sped out of the city. Within one month, he'd been in three car accidents, photographed in compromising positions and places, and was always seen with a glass or bottle of alcohol in hand. He'd always given Happy a hard time to keep track of him when he was escaping out of his mansion underneath Obadiah's watchful eye but with his newfound freedom had come more issues than any one person was prepared to tackle. Except unexpectedly, Steve hung around. He talked to Pepper Potts and Colonel Rhodes and even now the three of them were working to coral Tony. Tony seemed convinced that he had no time left in the world or that he had missed on so many years of it that he needed to make up for it all as soon as possible. 

If he hadn't been witness to the disaster in Monaco, Phil might have disbelieved the news reports that too much freedom had been a bad thing for Tony Stark. But he was there. Tony got into a race car and nearly killed himself driving it. He was either hunting for a thrill or trying to get himself killed. Steve had been left in the dust, comforting a panicked Pepper and Colonel Rhodes was still in America so Phil had taken advantage of the situation. He walked into the medical room they were holding Tony in, attempting to stitch up the wound on his head. Phil flashed his badge at the doctors and nurses, taking note of the fact that they had put Tony in restraints. 

"Mr. Stark, my name is Phil Coulson. I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." 

Tony snorted. "Here to take me down when I'm incapacitated? Or are you here to finish the job? Blackmail me into marrying Steve by taking my own goddamn company away from me?" 

"None of the above," Phil answered calmly. "I'm here to offer you a suggestion." 

"I don't need help from snakes like you or Fury." 

"Why don't you try the suit again, Mr. Stark?" Phil asked, ignoring the insult. "You could do a lot of things with it and no one would be able to stop you." He casually set a folder down beside Tony. 

Tony rolled his eyes. "Like I can read that from here. And secondly, I can't really do much when you _people_ and the military go around stealing my thunder." 

Phil resisted the urge to sigh. "You would know it was you, Stark. And if it matters so much that everyone knows, what's stopping you now? You have no technological barriers, no one is forcing you to do this or not do it. Give yourself something to do with your free time instead of joyriding drag races." 

Phil didn't wait for his response before he left. Not even a week later, Iron Man was spotted high in the skies and every known Hydra base in the Middle East was wiped out. Tony stopped frequenting the clubs and the car racing, but he did show up to high class parties and leave with a guest or two. He made sure to make it known that he didn't care who saw him doing what with whom. The sex stories stopped selling pretty quickly after that and it was common to see Tony prowling parties with a smirk as he overlooked the guests. One of those times he took several guests home, one of the young women ended up downstairs and Tony must have given JARVIS orders to let people discover his secret because the next day the story was out. Tony Stark was Iron Man and the whole world knew it. 

Phil put the report aside with a tired sigh and started looking through new mission reports. One of them was a joint mission on request of Maria Hill and Natasha Romanov. Without second guessing it, Phil pulled up the mission parameters and agreed. He sent the file to Barton who was undoubtedly going stir-crazy after six hours in confinement. The mission was in Myanmar. It was a trial mission for Natasha, with her permission, to see how well she could work with male agents. It was her personal request for it to be either Coulson or Barton –that made Phil smile to read. He hadn't realized he'd left such an impression with her, or possibly with Barton. There was an Omega trafficking ring going on –big enough that it had caught a great deal of political attention as Myanmar was hauling every last Omega out of their home and out from the city. Historically, it never ended well. Relocating a massive amount of people was always a terrible sign. 

Two days later, they were fully landing in Myanmar. The Black Widow –Agent Romanov –was sitting between Maria and Barton, her hair short and blonde. Barton was going over the aerial maps they had. Their objective was straightforward but that didn't make anything easier. They were to free the imprisoned Omegas and run across the border into India as India and Myanmar didn't have the best relationship. Unlike China; China would have returned every last Omega, probably dead or nearly so. India was their best chance. Malaysia, Laos and Bangladesh would have been forced to return the Omegas as neither of those countries had the willpower or political clout to stand up against Myanmar. 

It took them a week in total to make it to the encampment, free the Omegas and flee into India. But what they didn't count on was the fact that Myanmar was more ruthless than anticipated and that India was looking to get in their good graces. As they crossed the border, someone opened fire. Phil didn't have time to wonder who or why or consider how many; he reacted, trying to locate the shooter. Agent Barton and Agent Romanov were the ones to spot the shooter though and as Barton moved into position, several things happened at once. The fleeing Omegas panicked and broke cover, shoving their way past Clint. His first shot went wide, his second clipped the shooter's cheek and then he was jostled directly in the line of fire. It was Romanov who acted the fastest as she shoved Clint roughly. 

Clint was shoved out of the line of fire, but the shooter was good. The bullet missed Clint's vital organs and arteries as the shooter shot down on them from the rampart. The bullet soared past Clint's ear and dug into his shoulder. Maria emptied her clip in rapid succession as the Omegas continued to stream past them and Natasha hauled Clint into cover. Phil spotted the second shooter and opened fire before the other gunman could get into position. Maria dove for cover seconds later as they listened and watched for any sign of more shooters. The rescued Omegas seemed oblivious to potential dangers as they raced into India. Phil turned to Agent Barton, his heart lodging into his throat as he saw the way Clint was curled up, his teeth buried in his hand. No doubt to maintain their cover in case there was another gunman. Natasha grimly wrapped his shoulder with the shirt sleeve she had just torn off of him. 

"He needs medical attention," she said gruffly. 

Phil edged his way over. Clint's eyes darted to meet his gaze and Phil could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The wound was bleeding steadily and the bullet was still lodged in his body. He was definitely in need of medical attention but before Phil could offer his help, Clint kicked him hard. As always, Agent Barton's aim was perfect as his boot met Phil's hip and sent him tumbling backwards. From that angle, he could see the assassin that had crept up on them. Maria stepped forward and an assassin dropped down in front of her, and suddenly she was fighting for her life. Phil reacted not a moment too late, sweeping his leg out to send the assassin sprawling. In an instant, Phil was on his feet. So was the assassin. The fact that they were highly trained became obvious within minutes as Phil was forced to grapple with his opponent. It didn't happen often that he was engaged in a fight with someone of equal training. Melinda May, when they used to spar, probably Barton or Romanov if he ever found time to try sparring with them. This hitman was on par with Melinda. Natasha was the savior of the day, as she fired twice. Her aim wasn't necessarily perfect but it did the job. Each assassin dropped dead. 

"Red Room survivors," she said darkly, spitting on the ground. "We need to get Barton out of here, now." 

"We all need to get out of here," Maria said. 

"No," Natasha growled. "If they're here, there are more like them. I'm not leaving until I've found them. This is the first time I've seen anyone from the Red Room since I left." 

"Okay," Phil said slowly. "I'll call in an extract and leave with Barton. We'll swap out with Sitwell and one of his agents…" he cut off, turning to look at Barton as the man had grabbed Phil's wrist and was shaking his head. 

"No," he said loudly. "I want to help." He pointed at Natasha as though to illustrate what exactly he meant.

"You've been shot," Phil said, staring at him in disbelief. 

"I've had worse," Clint shouted, scowling. 

"Barton, inside voice," Maria hissed, surveying the area for any sign of more assassins. 

Clint hesitated suddenly, looking between Maria and Phil. "Your mouths are moving but I can't –I can't hear what you're saying," he stuttered, eyes wide with fear. 

Maria cursed. "It'll be hours before he can work, Phil. Call Sitwell." 

Natasha placed her hand over Clint's mouth and shook her head. Clint tried to speak, but Phil couldn't make out the words and from the way Natasha shook her head again, she couldn't either. She pulled her hand away and pressed them over her ears, shaking her head back and forth. Clint's eyes widened. Natasha then gestured and Clint stared at her in confusion. Honestly it took Phil a few moments to realize what she was doing; she was ringing an invisible bell. Clint frowned, staring at her for a long moment before nodding. His ears were ringing too loud for him to hear anything. Phil stepped away and called in the extraction. The risk was too great to try and march Clint to the nearest hospital. Besides risking infection and death, if they did make it to a hospital there would be plenty of awkward questions. The angle of the shot was peculiar. Sitwell was nearby in Mongolia and it took them hardly an hour to land nearby. In less than thirty minutes, Sitwell and two agents disembarked while Phil and Clint boarded the flight. Clint gave a token struggle when the medic approached him but settled down when Phil turned his attention to him. 

It was a few hours more before they reached the nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. approved hospital in the middle of Germany. With the help of a translator, the doctor explained that they had removed the bullet and with some physical therapy he would regain movement in his arm with no difficulties. However, his hearing was another matter entirely. 

"He must have experienced significant hearing loss before," the translator explained. "It is the only way this makes sense. He may have only been hearing about forty to sixty-five percent from his left ear from the trauma that he experienced. His hearing will never recover…" 

Phil listened intently to all the details, more concerned about how Clint was going to cope with this news than the news itself. He could adapt; they could all adapt to this change but it was going to be the hardest on Clint. And had he always had hearing loss? Had it happened when he was working for Hydra? Phil turned to look through the observation window, at where Clint was curled up on the bed, staring at the ceiling. No point in asking why he hadn't shared that news. It was a weakness that he had to have been aware of; in fact he was probably so aware of it that he went out of his way to make sure no one else ever learned about it. Until now. Phil sighed and walked into Clint's room. The angle of the bullet had done minimal damage to his arm, but the bullet had passed by his ear so closely that there were burn marks on the top and bottom of his ear from the graze of the bullet. 

Phil sat down beside Clint and pulled out the notebook he had bought twenty minutes ago in the gift shop. "How are you?" he wrote. 

Clint made a face. "Fine," he answered. "It's weird. I can't really hear much," he shrugged. 

Phil rolled his eyes. "The doctor said you must have been living with some hearing impairment for a while now," he wrote. 

"Oh, that," Clint said, unusually quiet. "Yeah. From when I was a kid, I guess. I don't really remember much." 

"The circus?" Phil wrote out, guessing. 

Clint grimaced and shook his head. "No. My dad. Hit me too hard or something, I guess I fell and my head hit the staircase or something." He shrugged. "Don't really remember it. I had to wear hearing aids for a bit but I was a kid. Recovered quick. Didn't need 'em as much after that." 

As much. Didn't need them as much, as though that negated their use entirely. "So you're familiar with using them then?" 

"Yeah, but if you try to use ASL with me I'm really rusty." Clint shrugged, like it didn't really matter to him. 

Phil smiled helplessly and shook his head. Barton was impossible. He had to wear hearing aids for "a bit" which generally meant anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months. If he'd had to start learning sign language, the impairment must have been more severe than Clint was aware of or more severe than he was willing to share. 

"I promise to keep it in mind," Phil wrote out. "What do you still remember how to sign?" 

Clint grinned brightly and raised his hand. It took Phil a minute to catch onto what he was spelling out and he had to laugh when Clint finished fingerspelling Hawkeye. Clint spelled out two more words, pausing in between to think about the shape he was making before he nodded in satisfaction. 

"My name," he said, spelling out the first word again. "I think your name is like this," he said, spelling out what must have been Coulson because he started with the same sign he'd used for his own name. "I remember a few of the basics. Like food, water, help, uh bathroom and weirdly I remember how to sign my dog ate my homework." Clint signed them out as he listed them, laughing when he reached the last one. He winced then. "I can still hear out of this ear," he said, pointing. "But everything sounds weird." 

"Did you use that excuse much?" Phil asked, grinning. 

Clint laughed. "I guess so? If I remember it so well I must have." 

They stayed in the hospital a few hours longer as the doctor got a hearing aid ready for Clint. When he was outfitted, they boarded a commercial flight and headed back to New York. Clint drummed his fingers absently, watching out the window before he slowly drifted asleep. It had been a very long however-many-days and Phil wasn't surprised when Clint nodded off. Sometimes, he envied that Clint could sleep just about anywhere. Most agents could. But Phil was oddly wakeful, as he sat beside Clint, skimming through his email. So it was a surprise when Clint's head rolled onto his shoulder, the soft strands of his sandy blonde hair brushing against Phil's neck. Concerned, he slowly glanced at Clint, making sure to not disturb him. But Clint's eyes were shut; he was breathing evenly and completely at peace. Honestly, Phil wasn't sure he'd ever seen Clint appear quite so relaxed before. Phil slowly tucked his phone into his pocket, careful not to disturb him. Phil relaxed his body slowly, catching sight of them in the window's reflection. He was surprised by their appearance; they looked like a couple. And the fact that he wanted to brush his hand through Clint's hair was doing nothing to ease the butterflies in his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long story short: I live thirty minutes away from town and have no neighbors with Internet access and I am no longer able to use Internet at my house as such I no longer have Internet at my fingertips. This can make writing challenging. It also makes posting much more difficult.
> 
> I think this is my favorite chapter so far.


	11. Breathe Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance.

It took Natasha, Hill and Sitwell and his two agents a month before they returned to New York. Natasha was right, of course, about the assassins being from the Red Room. Clint was only sorry he wasn't there to see her blow the whole bunker up –she literally blew it up. None of them took any of the paperwork or computer files they found strewn about; from overheard conversations, Clint understood that whatever had been going on at that bunker was better left blown to smithereens than being seen by anyone else. The month gave Clint plenty of time to adjust to his hearing aids as eccentrically as he could. His favorite was when he hid in the ductwork and shoot padded darts at unsuspecting agents. Clint kept a count on how many agents he'd shot and he was up to sixteen before Coulson came and retrieved him. The man was practically psychic, he had to be, how else would he know where Clint was? 

"Do you have a GPS tracker on me or something, sir?" Clint demanded as Coulson led him back to his office. 

"No," Coulson answered amusedly. "Agents Morse and Hale both reported being shot while in the coffee break room. After them, it was Agent Martin who stated she had been shot on her way out of the administrations room. It wasn't hard to realize you'd been circling the cafeteria." 

"How'd you know which vent?" Clint asked, fascinated. 

"Lucky guess," Coulson replied, pushing his office door open. "Seems you've recovered from your injury quite well, though." 

"I was testing out my reflexes," Clint protested, flopping down onto the office chair. 

"That's what the gym is for," Coulson said, sitting down behind his desk. "In fact, I think it will do you some good to spend some time down in accounting." He smiled blandly. "They are located on the second floor. Report to me when you've figured out how much installing the gym cost, the costs of its upkeep and the price of every dart you wasted." 

Clint pouted. "It was for the good of S.H.I.E.L.D. I was just testing my abilities." 

"Go," Coulson said the minute twitch of the corner of his mouth the only sign that he was amused by Clint's antics. 

Clint sighed heavily and left to go find the financial office and get the required information. Undoubtedly, if Clint tried to cheat his way out of it, Coulson would know. So Clint bypassed speaking to any of the workers and instead headed to their archival desk and started looking up the cost of the gymnasium S.H.I.E.L.D. had installed. It was nothing new. In the last month, Clint had been set a series of trivial tasks as punishments for all of his minor infractions. Most of the other senior agents wouldn't have bothered assigning him an out-of-the-way task like this. They tended to be more militaristic or simply academic; they preferred to assign him physical labor or apology letters. Not Coulson though. Coulson made every last punishment relevant to the infraction he'd committed. He used S.H.I.E.L.D. resources improperly and outside of their intended use and so he had to learn just what kind of money S.H.I.E.L.D. put into making the darts and maintaining the gym that he was supposed to access instead. And Clint reluctantly had to wince at the cost figures. Darts should _not_ cost that much –it was outrageous. 

It wasn't like Clint was causing Phil more paperwork at any rate. Honestly, these days Coulson didn't have as much paperwork to do. After Natasha and the others returned from India, Coulson seemed to take a step back from his excessive paperwork. Clint wasn't sure why entirely. But there were still weeks where Coulson would just disappear on some secretive mission of Fury's. Usually on those days, Clint was assigned to work with Hill or Sitwell. More often than not, he was working together with Natasha. And once Steve returned from Malibu, hideously suntanned and sporting a beard, Clint spent most of his time with them. And when Coulson got back from wherever he had been, he took over as their handler. 

"Welcome to Level Five," Coulson had told them when he walked into the room. "Fury's requested a specialized team, one that can function without extraction and works seamlessly together. He thinks we're the answer to his need." He paused, his face a blank mask as he turned to meet Clint's gaze, then Natasha's and finally Steve's. "Starting today, we are Strike Team Delta." 

Steve couldn't always join them but if he was available, he would. Their missions took a turn for the murkier, darker jobs. Jobs that were similar to what they had done in Myanmar focused on rescuing oppressed Omegas and sticking their noses into international politics. The work they did was often bloody and too often they couldn't save their intended target, but it was good work. They couldn't always win. Serbia was one of those times. They'd been called in to escort an Omega prostitute out of the country. An up-and-coming politician had kept Andjela chained up in his basement for his convenience and with the help of the politician's son, she had escaped. They were going to get her into Croatia to a reporter who would take Andjela's story down to reveal to the world who the politician really was. But Hydra got in their way. They were leaving the hotel, heading to the cab with the Omega in the middle of their formation when there was the echo of a gunshot. They didn't find the shooter. But it was a clean shot and the shooter left no evidence behind. Andjela was dead before she hit the pavement. 

Clint and Natasha shared a look and knew that whenever Bucky got back to himself, Andjela's death would weigh heavily on him. But there was nothing they could do. They gave their reports to the police and returned to New York. Andjela's death wasn't their first mission failure, but it affected them all a little differently. Natasha started going with Coulson on free time, down to a woman's shelter where they taught the women self-defence. Clint had nightmares, off and on for about a month, where he was in Andjela's position. Steve started publically spending more time at charity events for abused Omegas and Clint wondered, not for the first time, how much he should tell Steve about his own past. He was sure it wouldn't end well. 

They had just finished dismantling a small time trafficking ring in Iceland of all places. Strike Team Delta had been up and running for nearly a year when Natasha let the last shred of Natalia Romanova disappear entirely. She stopped dying her hair different colors and let the natural red stand out. Between it and her black uniform, she truly did look like the Black Widow she used to be. But she laughed easier these days. In fact, just a few months ago she'd convinced Clint to ask Bobbi Morse out on a date. It was a disaster of course, but Bobbi still invited him into her bedroom. The sex had been mind-blowing but something had been missing –which was something Clint kept to himself. Bobbi hadn't minded and aside from a few teases about his athleticism, she was content to leave their friendship intact. And when she'd caught Clint checking out a man, she'd started to insist he hit up one of the attractive S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that were always around. Sometimes she even recommended the lab analysts. (Granted, Leo was adorable but totally not Clint's type). Despite her lowering her guard incrementally and easing into her new self, she had not shared all of her secrets. They were in Iceland when it came to a head. 

"Natalie Rushman," Steve said, as they stepped into the safe house. 

It was hard to say who reacted faster; Natasha or Coulson as they both practically tripped over themselves to address him. It was Natasha who got the first word out, though, and she ordered them to sit before she talked about Project Rebirth. And once she got started, Steve picked up her story to share his own tale. No wonder sparring with them was so hard. They were both super soldiers. Clint started to work harder at his martial arts abilities when he was on downtime. Steve and Natasha were both more than welcoming about teaching him new moves. After leaving the program, Steve was shuffled around from military to military camp –sometimes around the world –and he soaked up all the fighting skills he could learn. Either from the countries' military soldiers or the locals he encountered. Apparently he wasn't quite as uptight about the rules as Clint had expected, considering from the way Steve talked about those times, the military was at risk of conflict with the locals. Natasha on the other hand had been taught for years on being lethal and she had absorbed everything. Steve knew things she didn't though and she knew moves Steve hadn't even heard of. 

Watching the two of them spar was a work of art. Enough so that all Clint had to do was drop by Coulson's office and announce that Natasha and Steve were sparring to get Coulson down to the gym. Maybe Clint didn't have their stamina or endurance, but he still had his bow and arrows. He still had his swordplay. He might never be on equal footing with Natasha or Steve –both of them had enhanced strength and speed and while they never went easy on Clint, Clint rarely won against them. Their enhancements were their strength however, much like Clint's archery and swordsmanship were his strengths. Coulson too couldn't exactly compare with the super soldiers, but he rarely lost when he participated in sparring with his team. Coulson could manage to draw the match instead of outright lose it. Strategy was Coulson's strength. Honestly, when Clint sparred with him the first time, he was a little scared but mostly exhilarated. He lost spectacularly the first time. 

But as they spent more time together, as they got to know each other, their sparring matches changed. Steve brought his shield into the sparring ring; Natasha brought her Widow's Bites and, at Coulson's prodding, brought a sword. He hesitated at the last minute to end the match, to have Steve tapping out, and for his hesitation he took Steve's shield directly to his face. But using the sword felt wrong. Every bodily instinct he had rejected using it. He only used a katana when he was killing, when he was maiming, when he was a tool. When he was nothing but Hydra's puppet. The shield to his face was nothing less than he deserved, even though he ended up with a black eye and a concussion for his trouble, Steve's caution was grating. Between his overcautious-ness in matches and Natasha's barbed words, the next time Clint brought a sword he walked out victorious and without having shed blood. The next match, he came with his bow and quiver and then nobody was going easy on each other. Clint started drawing matches more often than losing them and he started to learn Coulson's way of strategizing. 

As their friendship grew and their teamwork improved, so did Strike Team Delta's reputation. When they were engaged in missions, that was their sole focus. Nothing else existed for them but the mission. They were relentless and for all the danger zones they entered and walked out of, none of them ever required an extraction. Clint had ninety-six hours he could withstand at the most of torture and his teammates had that time to find him. But for the rare time someone grabbed him from his perch, they never managed to restrain him properly or break him. They weren't Hydra. Clint left, sometimes on his own, sometimes escorted by his team, bleeding and beaten up but never broken. The first time someone grabbed Natasha, Clint nearly panicked and he wondered if this was how it felt for her and Coulson and Steve when he was abducted. But in less than six hours, Natasha arrived at their agreed meeting point, only a little worse for wear. She wasn't unscathed but she wasn't an emotional wreck either. It wasn't her first time either. 

And then, nearly two years into Strike Team Delta, everything changed. 

It was their first mission in Russia as a team and both Clint and Natasha were uneasy about it. S.H.I.E.L.D. had uncovered a Hydra base location but there were limited details. It was nothing Strike Team Delta hadn't dealt with before. Limited information and only a handful of people. They trusted their analysts and they went over what information they did have before they went into the Hydra base. Except it was a trap. The information the analysts had was a trap, left for them to discover after some digging around. As they approached the derelict building, Clint could see Hydra agents bustling around in the darkness. But with a shared look between the three of them –Steve had been requested by the military and as such he had dutifully answered their call –they agreed on their plan and approached the building. 

Clint started firing as Natasha broke cover and crept over in the darkness. Coulson went next. And once Clint could see Natasha arrive at the terrace and Coulson at the front door, Clint followed after them. Coulson slammed the front door open and Clint fired inside, taking out the three guards that came running for them. They raced in, meeting up with Natasha. Despite the fact that Hydra had the advantage of knowing they were coming and having falsified their information, the three of them had nearly cleaned out the base when a gunshot rang out. Clint reacted without thinking, turning and firing, his arrow. A metal hand closed around the shaft, tossing it aside carelessly before the Winter Soldier slipped away. It was then that Clint registered the echoing scream of pain, the labored breaths and the fact that Coulson wasn't ordering them to pursue or retreat from the Winter Soldier. Clint turned, his heart lodging itself somewhere in his throat as he dropped to his knees next to Coulson. 

Natasha met Clint's gaze, her eyes damp and her hands covered in Coulson's blood as she pressed on the wound. The fact that Coulson wasn't dead –that the Winter Soldier hadn't killed him –meant that there was something more going on. Documents Hydra wanted to keep safe, secrets they wanted kept secret. The Winter Soldier wanted to stop them and he had. He had. 

"Call the med evac," Clint said hoarsely, reaching to set his hands over Natasha's. He wouldn't have been able to make it through the report. 

Natasha, bless her, gave a deciding nod and pulled away. Within seconds she had vanished and Clint was alone with Coulson. 

Coulson inhaled shakily, whimpering under his breath on the exhale. "I'd always h-heard shots to the stomach were the worst," he panted. "True. Definitely true." 

"Shut up," Clint hissed, but there was no heat in his words. Just panic. Fuck. Was he supposed to be bleeding this much? Was that normal? "Conserve your energy or something. You might need it." 

Coulson smiled tightly. Each breath he took clearly pained him, as the lines around his eyes tightened in pain every inhalation. But he appeared alert, as his eyes tracked Clint's movements, darted from his face to Clint's hands on his stomach. He wasn't concussed or something, Natasha had probably saved him from a bad fall. It was impossible to process what had just happened. Clint could feel his hands shaking and for the first time since he had met Coulson, since he had met the agent who hid his amusements and humor with bland masks, Clint was terrified he would lose him. Barely twenty, Coulson was older, wiser and stronger. Coulson was… Coulson. 

"You're not going to die," Clint said harshly, glaring at the hole in Coulson's tactical suit. 

"Not with you holding me together," Coulson joked, grimacing in pain. 

"You could hold yourself together," Clint argued, feeling hot tears burning his eyes. He blinked them back stubbornly. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Coulson get hurt. But it was the most serious wound. If they didn't get him medical attention soon, he would die. He was losing a lot of blood. 

"Too much work," Coulson murmured. 

"Says the guy who eats paperwork for breakfast and practically lives out of his office. Nothing's too much work for you, sir." 

"This might be." 

Clint bit his lip roughly, watching as Coulson's eyes fluttered shut for a pause before blinking them open again. His skin was white, so white. "Promise me you won't die," Clint said desperately, hearing his voice crack. "Promise me." 

But Coulson didn't answer. His eyes slipped shut again as he lost consciousness. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the blood loss. For the first time since he was maybe a child, since he had been sold to Hydra, Clint felt utterly powerless. 

"Coulson," he begged quietly, distantly aware of a team of medics racing down to them. "Don't do this to me." 

Clint moved aside when the medics arrived. But his heart, which had been lodged in his throat, felt like it had been ripped out of his body and thrown far away. He wasn't sure when it had happened exactly, but he had somehow let these people into his life. Natasha helped him to his feet and they trailed after the medics, getting into a company car. S.H.I.E.L.D. had apparently pulled a lot of strings for Coulson. Natasha and Steve were his family. He wasn't sure when that had happened either, but he knew it. Coulson was something else entirely and it terrified Clint. It terrified him as much as losing Coulson forever terrified him. He wrapped his arms around himself as he settled into the back seat, fingers drumming against his knee anxiously. He'd never had anyone like Coulson in his life. Barney, on a good day, but those days was shadowed by his betrayal. 

Natasha lightly set her hand on his back and Clint leaned into her touch. They rode to the hospital in silence, the flashing red-and-white lights of the ambulance guiding them. Coulson went into surgery. Clint sat down in the waiting room, hunched over, fingers twitching anxiously. Natasha stayed by his side, leaving only to return with food and water. Before she gave him either, she gently prodded him towards a bathroom and it wasn't until Clint was standing in front of the sinks that he realized he still had Coulson's blood over his hands. He was a little ashamed of the noise he made as he turned the hot water on and doused his hands in soap and burning hot water. He scrubbed until he wasn't sure whether his hands were pink from Coulson's blood or the too hot water. Clint slipped out of the bathroom, sitting down beside Natasha and chewing mechanically on the sandwich she had gotten him. It tasted like nothing, but every bite seemed to fall apart and coat his mouth. He set the sandwich down and shook his head at Natasha's questioning gaze. She handed him the water bottle instead and Clint drank anxiously. 

Clint wasn't sure how much time had passed but it was hours and hours. Natasha had bought him three water bottles and another sandwich before a doctor walked over to them. Clint nearly broke the waiting room in his haste to get up, almost knocking the magazine table over. The rack was a lost cause, even as he focused on the doctor and heard the magazines sliding onto the floor. His water bottles rocked on the table from where his knees had collided and the empty two fell over, tumbling, the loud crunch of plastic seeming to echo in the waiting room as the doctor approached. 

"Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov?" the doctor inquired. They both nodded. "Agent Coulson has stabilized now, but it was rocky for a while. We almost lost him. We had to induce a coma in order to –" 

Clint tuned out after coma. "How long?" he asked, hating the way his voice cracked on the word. He swallowed, his throat suddenly too dry. "The coma. How long will it last?" 

"Hard to say," the doctor said gently. "It varies with every patient. I know your people want him back in America. He's stabilized now. From my understanding your organization will be here shortly to return him to your medical facility." 

Clint nodded numbly, sinking back down onto his chair. Natasha spoke with the doctor for a while longer before returning to Clint. True to his word, a team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and medical professionals arrived. Clint and Natasha returned with them. Clint made to follow them down to medical to watch over Coulson but Natasha set her hand on his chest and shook her head. 

"You need to sleep, Clint." 

"No, I don't. I'm fine. I need to see him." 

"He is fine. I will watch him tonight. You must sleep." 

There was no arguing with Natasha once she had decided something. Clint reluctantly gave up arguing with her and headed to his room. He could hardly see Coulson during the flight as the man was surrounded by doctors. But he was alive. He hadn't died. Sleep was not easy that night. The fifth time Clint woke up from a nightmare, he climbed into the vent in his room and made his way down to medical. Natasha was seated on a chair beside his bed and looked up; as though she sensed him arrive. She probably had. Natasha sighed and moved aside. 

"If you will not sleep, then I will," she declared, walking from the room. She wasn't angry though. She was sad. 

Clint dropped down from the vent silently and settled in to sit beside Coulson. No one was around and in the safety of Coulson's curtained bed, Clint reached over and tentatively set his hand over Coulson's. Clint swallowed back his tears and his relief. He could see the steady rise and fall of Coulson's chest; he could feel the warmth of his hand. Clint bowed his head. _Please don't leave me._

Phil 

Phil woke up in bits and pieces. There were just flashes of awareness, of people speaking to him. Fury's tired voice, Maria's stern tones and Jasper's broken humor. Stretched between them he could remember doctors and nurses speaking to him. The moment when he opened his eyes and was assaulted with too much information to process so he slipped back into unconsciousness. It was simpler there. But he became aware of a dull ache and slid back into reality day by day as the ache solidified into the pain of a healing wound. Memory came back much slower of the events leading up to him getting shot, but he could answer the present questions the doctors wanted to know until they were satisfied he knew what year it was and who the president was. Natasha dropped by with a small vase of flowers and an apologetic smile and he could remember the laboratory disguised as a derelict building they had been investigating. Steve was next and his gentle blue eyes reminded him of the gleam of metal he had seen from the corner of his eye and turned towards. Clint came by with a Starkpad which he awkwardly handed to Phil and he could recognize Stark's work all over the gift. He glanced at Clint, suddenly unsure as he was flooded with the memory of Clint's broken, pleading voice. 

He slept on and off for the rest of the week. Unexpectedly his most frequent visitor was Clint. No doubt he would wake up at odd times, but it seemed like Clint was always there. When he was released from medical, he let Clint guide him to one of the spare rooms used by agents when they couldn't make it home. S.H.I.E.L.D. had many of them. The next morning, Clint brought breakfast and they ate together in companionable silence. Natasha and Steve joined them not long after, sharing smiles. 

"I'd like to go home," Phil admitted tiredly and soon he found himself being bundled up and fussed over by two super soldiers in their own ways. 

Steve helped him to Natasha's car and Clint climbed into the backseat next to Steve as Natasha drove them to Phil's apartment. It was a relief to be home, even though it didn't really feel like it. He was still spending more hours in his office than he was at home but he rarely slept in his office these days. Steve made them all a lovely lunch but Phil could feel that he was already drifting off. 

"Someone should really stay with you," Steve said, ever concerned. 

"The doctors said I was fine," Phil argued, stubborn as he picked at his lunch. It was a lovely soup but Phil was thoroughly bored of eating soups. "I can look after myself. If I need help I can call someone." 

His three agents exchanged a long look. 

"I'll stay," Clint said, surprising Phil once again. "I can make sure he follows the doctors' wishes and I'll call if I need back up." 

"You sure?" Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes at him. 

"That sounds good, Clint," Steve said, smiling politely. 

Having made their decision for him, Natasha and Steve both said their farewells to Phil before leaving. Phil stared at Clint incredulously, feeling a little betrayed. Of all his agents Clint was the one who would understand how the doctors' orders sucked. And he was the one most likely to relate. Natasha and Steve both healed quickly. They weren't the ones who were going to have to spend a month and a half or more with limited physical activity and a liquid diet. 

"You make me obey their orders," Clint said defensively, his face heating up as though he could tell what Phil was thinking. 

Phil sighed deeply. "So this is karma, is that what you're telling me?" 

"Yes sir," Clint said, far too cheerfully. 

"I lived like you wanted me to promise and you're going to make me eat liquid foods for another month?" Phil asked teasingly. 

Clint flushed and stuttered rather inarticulately for a minute before shrugging too casually and walking away. Well. That was certainly interesting. Phil followed him into the kitchen. "Sorry that was… cruel, of me," he said carefully, watching Clint. 

Clint shrugged. "I like your place," he said, instead. 

"Really?" Phil asked, surprised as he looked around his apartment. "I thought it would have reminded you of a hospital." 

Clint chuckled and he seemed surprised by himself. "Your walls aren't quite white enough for that, sir." He paused. "The blue living room is a relief, at least." 

Phil smiled softly. "Yes, I suppose it is." The living room was his favorite room of the apartment; maybe that was why? 

"It just…" Clint started to say, cutting himself off as he turned around, snooping around the apartment. "It feels like you sir, if that makes sense. You've got all this modern furniture but then there's this worn feeling to everything." 

Phil knew what he meant. But it was both interesting and mildly concerning to watch Clint pull each descriptor out. "Thank you, I think." Phil turned towards the living room. "Do you want to watch some T.V. with me?" 

Clint turned back to him, eyes wide. "Yeah, that'd –yeah." 

Clint hovered around all afternoon. Even though he was seated on Phil's couch, watching bad reality programming, he was hovering. It was like he was waiting for Phil to kick him out or for Phil to keel over so he could spring into action. If he wasn't quite so adorable at it, it would have been infuriating. As it was, Phil just wanted him to relax. So Phil sat more at ease in his chair and if he needed something he made sure to ask Clint. Around the fifth or sixth time he requested a glass of water, Clint started to relax. He settled back and watched as Nanny Jo sent the toddler back to time out for the sixth time in a row. Some of the parents' reactions got a few chuckles out of Clint, but mostly he sat at sniper's attention. Knowing that he had several episodes still on his PVR, Phil flipped the channel, keeping an eye on Clint's reactions. 

This wasn't the first time Phil had come close to death before. He'd seen agents pass away. But for Clint, he seemed to be struggling. Phil wasn't sure with what, he doubted Clint even knew for certain, but he wanted to help his agent. Clint seemed to be the most interested in the Animal Planet documentary so Phil let that play. Honestly, Phil wasn't that interested in the survival instincts of snakes and other reptilian animals but it was relaxing to listen to the smooth British voice of the narrator. So relaxing, in fact, that he might have dozed off for a few minutes as when he opened his eyes next it was significantly darker outside and the documentary was about endangered species. Clint wasn't sitting on the end of the couch and as Phil moved to sit up, he noticed the blanket that had been carefully draped across him and the smell of garlic. 

"Clint?" Phil called, suddenly worried that his kitchen might be burning down. 

"Yeah?" Clint asked, poking his head around the corner. The fact that he didn't look nervous was immensely relieving to Phil. 

"What –what are you cooking?" 

"Uh, spaghetti. And meatballs. I figured they couldn't be too hard to make, right?" Clint went to run a hand through his hair and stopped himself. "Yeah, and they're on the approved menu list Steve got from the doctor. Soft food, you know." 

"Oh," Phil said, a little taken aback. "Thank you." _You didn't have to,_ he resisted adding. He watched as Clint disappeared back into his kitchen. 

Phil levered himself up carefully, slowly making his way into the kitchen. Surprisingly, it wasn't a disaster zone. Clint seemed at ease as he turned the heat down on one of the burners and lifted the pot off it. When exactly had Clint learned how to cook? He still lived in headquarters and ate in the cafeteria. But the food smelled good and looked just as good. 

"Sir, you can't be on your feet for too long," Clint pointed out, glancing over his shoulder. "Sit down. I'll bring dinner to you." 

"I can manage," Phil said stubbornly, ignoring the mild ache in his stomach. "You're doing all the cooking. I can serve myself." 

Clint rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't let me get away with saying that, sir. Come on, sit down. Relax. It's not going to kill me to do this but it might if you keep standing." 

Phil reluctantly sat down at the table, leaning back carefully. Everything kind of had a dull ache to it. He felt old. "Where did you learn how to cook?" Phil asked, watching Clint appreciatively. 

"Watching people, mostly," Clint answered as he spooned out the spaghetti. "I follow recipes to the letter, which I guess helps? I mean they don't turn out bad or anything." 

"Who've you been watching cook?" Phil asked, mystified. As far as he knew, Clint never left headquarters. 

"Steve, mostly. Couple of the other agents." Clint shrugged, carrying the bowl over. "Steve said the doctor's orders are pretty tight. You just have to eat food that'll be easy on your stomach –not necessarily a liquid diet, sir." 

The spaghetti smelled fantastic. And it looked pretty good too. "We're off base," Phil pointed out, cautiously. "You don't have to keep calling me that." 

He meant it too, but as he watched Clint's eyes widen in surprise, he wondered if he was letting his heart get the better of him. As much as he enjoyed hearing Clint refer to him as 'sir' when Clint referred to no other handler or agent, excluding Fury, by that sign of respect, if they were going to be engaging each other personally he would prefer it be as equals. Even first names would be an improvement. 

"You're here to help me. You don't have to. It doesn't have to do with our jobs. At least I hope it doesn't –" 

"I'm here because I want to be," Clint said, his lips twitching into a smile. 

"You could even call me Phil, if you wanted," he continued. 

"Only if you call me Clint," he replied, chuckling as he turned back to the kitchen. "I made garlic bread too, but that's just for me. Since garlic is a big no-no or whatever." 

"How cruel," Phil commented. "Garlic bread is my favorite and you're just gonna eat it in front of me?" 

"Shit, really?" Clint asked, turning back to face him guiltily. 

Phil smiled amusedly. "No, Clint. It's fine." 

Clint made a face. "I don't think I've ever heard you call me by my first name before. It's weird." He sat down across from Phil, garlic bread resting across his bowl. _"Phil,"_ he said, like he was testing out his name on his tongue. 

"That is my name, yes," Phil replied, taking a bite of spaghetti. 

"I don't know if I've ever heard anyone call you by it before." 

"Typically because I'm at work whenever we're in the same room," Phil pointed out wryly. 

"Oh forgive me," Clint teased. "I didn't know you had a life outside your office." 

"Just because I didn't invite you out doesn't mean I didn't go out." 

"Like your date with Dr. Taylors?" Clint asked, grinning at him. 

Phil did choke then. "You-you knew about that?" 

"Yeah, I figured it out," Clint said, laughing. "I mean she used to talk about you _all the time._ And then she suddenly didn't. And now she's dating one of the lab techs or whatever. I asked her about it and she just said things hadn't worked out between you guys." Clint paused, as though realizing he might have put his foot in his mouth. 

"Yes, we went on a date and yes, it was a bad date. For both of us." Phil took a drink of his water, wondering if Clint had been interested because of Dr. Taylors or because of him. No. No, Clint wasn't interested in someone like Phil. "What about you and Agent Morse?" Did Clint think he hadn't noticed, or heard about, how much time he spent together with Agent Morse? She was a good match for him. 

Clint flushed at that and Phil resisted the urge to smile at having caught him out. "Oh, Bobbi, yeah," he said, laughing nervously as he twirled pasta around his fork. "We had a thing for a bit." 

"Had?" 

"Yeah. We, uh, ended it." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," Phil said, observing Clint. He didn't appear distressed. 

Clint smiled lightly. "Ah, we weren't that into each other. You know? Sometimes things with people are just better off casual." 

"Did she want more, then?" 

Clint shook his head. "Neither of us did. The casual thing was working but the dating didn't." 

"That's too bad," Phil said. 

Maybe he would never have a chance at being together with Clint. And that would be okay. Because it was more than enough just to have Clint here, like this, sharing pieces of his life willingly. For all that they had spent years working together; Clint never openly shared information about himself. Honestly Phil wasn't sure if he should ever try and let Clint know that he would gladly take more from their friendship. He was someone Clint trusted –and Clint didn't have a lot of people like that in his life. Additionally, he was Clint's handler and he never wanted to betray the trust Clint had extended to him. If Phil could only have this friendship with Clint, he would take it and he would bask in every moment of it. After everything Clint had been through, it was a small miracle he trusted Phil at all. That he trusted anyone. So he would take what Clint was offering and he would ask for no more. All too soon their conversation trickled away as they finished eating and Clint set about cleaning up. 

"I can help," Phil insisted from his seat. 

"I know," Clint said, taking his plate from him. "You've done plenty for me before, sir, and you'll probably do more for me in the future. So just let me help you now." 

Phil sighed, relinquishing his grip on the plate. It was the 'sir' that had undone him. It would probably always be his use of sir that left Phil reeling. Maybe it was Phil's wishful thinking but when Clint said it, it seemed to embody Clint's very trust in Phil. After all, there was no one else at S.H.I.E.L.D. used it with. Phil smiled to himself, watching as Clint washed the dishes and put the leftovers into Tupperware containers to cool down. It might have been the first time his kitchen had ever seen any actual cooking take place. As Clint finished up with the dishes, he handed Phil the two painkillers he was supposed to take and a glass of water. 

"Dinner was great, Clint," he said, smiling. "Thank you." Phil swallowed the pills down with the water. 

Clint blushed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah? I'm glad you liked it." 

"You can stay as long as you like. Watch more National Geographic or Animal Planet with me." 

"I didn't take you for a documentary type, Coulson –Phil. What with the way you were snoring earlier." 

"That was a sign of my appreciation," Phil said. "That narrator is a gift to insomniacs all over the world." 

"You have trouble sleeping?" Clint asked, almost surprised before edging closer. He leaned against the entryway wall. 

"Sometimes." Most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did. Handlers especially, when they'd been in the field long enough to lose an agent or two. 

"Yeah, me too," Clint said softly, gazing at the television screen. 

Phil carefully eased himself down onto the armchair. He wondered if it was nightmares that kept Clint awake, or if it was a kind of restless energy that only exertion could burn out. Phil was all too used to the insomnia he experienced. Mostly, he just had a hard time falling asleep. Nothing so extreme as to limit his performance in the field, but enough that he was tired more often than not. And it was always worse when he was in the field or on foreign land. Home wasn't much better considering he spent restless nights staring at his ceiling, counting whatever he could find to count. 

"You're welcome to stay and watch," Phil said. "If you fall asleep on my couch I won't blame you." 

"I can stay for a while," Clint agreed, sinking down onto the couch cushions. "Is this why you're always after me to get my own apartment?" 

"Because you need more space that a six by ten glorified bedroom?" 

"Well yeah but I mean… your place feels lived in." 

That was surprising. Phil wasn't here very often. "How so?" 

"You've got art on your walls and pictures on your mantle. Hell, you have a mantle to begin with. Your cupboards are full of chinaware, you own silverware. You have a kitchen." 

"I have an apartment, yes, which can come with those things." 

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have one," Clint said contemplatively. 

Phil smiled and nodded at him in agreement. Clint turned the volume up slowly and the room was filled with the soothing tones of a British narrator. Just as Phil was relaxing enough to doze off, his back got a twinge and he ended up sitting on the couch next to Clint. He didn't have enough room to stretch out in any way on his armchair but there was just enough room on the couch that he could feel his muscles starting to relax. If it were a date, Phil thought it might have been the nicest one he'd ever been on. But it wasn't. And as nice as Clint's presence was to have, he couldn't help sneaking glances at the other man. The _want_ wasn't a new feeling, exactly, but it was more intense than what he was used to. It wasn't something that was going to go away soon, either. 

"You okay, sir? Phil," Clint corrected himself, turning to face him. 

They were so close their shoulders were touching. It wasn't intimate, it wasn't special; it just simply was. Phil wasn't sure if he should be wishing for more or less drugs. More and he might have the courage to simply move a breath or two closer, ending the distance between them. Less drugs and he might have been rational enough to not get this close in the first place. But Phil was somewhere in between, instead, struggling with whether or not he should let his desires get the better of him. 

"You want me to go?" Clint asked, pulling back. 

"Sorry," Phil said, cracking a yawn that wasn't entirely faked. "I'm just distracted." The sleepy smile he offered his friend was genuine too. 

"Yeah, it's late," Clint agreed, getting up. "Another time, maybe?" 

"You're welcome to stop by," Phil found himself adding, forcing himself to get onto his feet. He couldn't feel any of the aches from earlier. The drugs were definitely kicking in. He watched Clint leave before locking the door, already regretting that tomorrow he would have nothing to regret. 

The next day, he was incredibly grateful that he had not kissed Clint. If he could have withstood the pain, he would have stopped taking the painkillers at that moment. But as it was, when lunch rolled around, the pain was too much to handle and he reluctantly took the two pills. Clint dropped by again in time to make dinner, despite Phil's protests. They ended the evening watching television together and Phil remained sitting in his armchair. The next day Clint turned up in time to make lunch, Natasha and Steve trailing along with him. Steve took over the kitchen duties as he usually did. And it might have been the most relaxed, fun day Phil had had in a long time. The rest of the week was interspersed with visitors; Maria and Jasper dropped by, as did Fury. Clint was definitely his one constant visitor though, as he dropped by to make dinner nearly every day. When he didn't come over, it was Steve who dropped by to take over the cooking duties and informed Phil that Clint had been sent out on a mission with Sitwell. 

By the end of his second week at home, Phil was officially going stir crazy. Natasha, Steve and Clint were all off on missions and there was no one around to prevent him from going into work. So he dressed methodically and went in, writing up his mission report of what had happened in the Hydra bunker. Then he headed up to Fury's office. His secretary waved him through and Phil entered the office area, report in hand. 

"Coulson you're supposed to be in bed, resting," Fury pointed out. "It's why it's called bed rest." 

"I got bored," Phil said, sitting down across from his friend. "And anyways I'm not going to bleed out from sitting at my desk and typing." He held the report towards Fury, knowing the recommended actions section would not go amiss. 

Fury frowned, taking the paper from him. "Are you sure about this Coulson?" 

"Absolutely," Phil said. "Really, it's the only thing that makes sense." 

"Barton's as human as you," Fury countered. "You don't have to leave the team because of one injury." 

"I do. Agent Barton may be a regular human like me but even you've seen him spar with Captain Rogers and Agent Romanov. He's their equal, sir." 

"They won't like this," Fury pointed out, leaning back in his seat. "They really won't like this." 

"You need them functioning as a team. But we haven't known who to put in charge of them. Agents Barton and Romanov respond to him. It might be harder to fit Stark and Banner in with them but they're our wild cards anyways. Three is better than none." 

"None of their loyalties are to S.H.I.E.L.D. first. Barton's loyal to you; Romanov is loyal to him and by default to you and Rogers' is loyal to his ideals." Fury drummed his fingers against his desk. "I wanted you on the field with them, keep them grounded to us." 

"I'm getting too old for this," Phil said, grateful that his voice didn't shake. "For Strike Team Delta –I can't keep up with them. I would never be able to keep up with them from the ground." 

"Then do it from the air, do it from your office. Be the voice in their ear. I'll get Sitwell out of there –you can be the one to organize their missions." Fury paused. "But Phil, you've done amazing work with them. Are you sure this is what you want?" 

"They need to get used to Captain Rogers' being in charge," Phil explained patiently. "We need them to function like a team. Stark signed on as a consultant, we'll get them in the same room a few times. Start building them up as a team. Banner's hiding out in India still, we know this. We can bring him in when we need him." 

Fury nodded once. "Done. I'll collect them when they're back. You can break the news to them since this is your decision. I don't have time to coddle them." 

"Yes sir." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter twelve should be up this time next week if all goes well.) 
> 
> I've missed your guys' input as I've been writing this week and I really hope you enjoy this chapter!


	12. Two Hearts Set On Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm more and more certain that this fic will end around being 16-17 chapters long.
> 
> As I got closer to this point, I realized I could potentially spend another 50,000 words or more getting Clint and Phil to this point. And I decided I didn't want to do that. I just hope you guys like it. 
> 
> I really, really hope you like it...

It wasn't a surprise that Clint was the one who was having trouble adjusting to Phil's news. 

"It's not that you don't want to work with us anymore, but you think we'd be better off without you?" Clint asked, standing at attention in the doorway of Phil's office. 

An hour ago he had broken the news to his agents that Captain Rogers was taking over leadership while he stayed back to provide them support from headquarters through the comm system. It had been nearly two months since Phil had talked to Fury about this; he'd had time to prepare while his agents –while Agents Romanov, Barton and Rogers' headed back to the States. They weren't his agents anymore. It was going to be hard to remember that. They came back at different times throughout the months, but it took until the end of the second month before they were all back on American soil at the same time. Phil was glad to see them in one piece and he knew they had been relieved to see how well-recovered he was from the gunshot wound not too long ago. 

"Yes," Phil said carefully, looking up from his paperwork to address Clint. "The three of you perform seamlessly. You don't need me." 

"I do," Clint said roughly, leaning against the door frame, his hand on the knob. He twisted it slowly, his eyes on Phil's desk. "I need you." 

"Not in the field," Phil said tentatively. "Agent Barton, you're one of S.H.I.E.L.D's best agents. With or without me." 

"Well I only got here 'cus of you." 

"And that won't change. I'm still here. I'm just going to be the voice in your ear, overseeing the mission." Phil set his pen down. "It's no different than when we get assigned different missions. Only you'll be with Captain Rogers. And you can't tell me you're worried that he won't do as good of a job as I would," Phil teased. "We both know he's more than capable." 

Steve had taken the news remarkably well. If anything, he'd seemed a little relieved. It meant he wouldn't be the one in charge of wrangling Stark outside of the mission –that duty would now fall to Phil. He hadn't spoken to the captain prior to when he delivered the news to the whole team. He wanted to make sure they all felt like equals, like teammates. He and Steve were largely transferring duties and responsibilities between them for now. It would probably do Steve some good –he never complained of course, but he didn't enjoy the paperwork or the sudden late night phone calls that sent him all over the country to chase after Stark. 

"He is, of course but –" 

"You trust Captain Rogers. With the three of you in the field, there won't be anything you can't do. And I'm still recovering; it'll be months before I'm field ready. You three can do more than if I were there." 

Clint nodded slowly, his hands falling to his sides. "It's just…" he chewed his lip, mulling his words over. 

"Agent Barton," Phil said gently, "Clint, I'm still your friend. You can sleep on my couch whenever you want. I'll still be here for you." _I promise I'm not _going_ anywhere. _

Clint smiled uncertainly. "Yeah?" He glanced up, peering at him through his lashes. "That's what I was worried about. You know, your couch is the most comfortable one I've ever slept on." 

"That's why I keep it," Phil said lightly, watching in relief as the darkness behind Clint's eyes lifted again. 

"So does this mean you're going to be a desk jockey from now on?" he asked, flopping down onto the couch. 

"For the most part, yes." 

"You'll go batshit, Coulson." 

"Visit me in psych if I do, Barton." 

"Oh of course sir. I'll take pictures too and bring them to Fury and the rest of the team 'cus no one would believe me otherwise." Clint stretched his arms above his head, craning his neck to stare at Coulson over the couch cushions. 

"Oh they would," Phil countered, starting to go through his paperwork again. "I've been telling everyone for years that you would drive me into a straightjacket if just to prevent myself from wringing your neck." 

Clint snorted. "Yeah? Well at least if you were working with me I could take responsibility for that part of it. But no, no, one day you'll be sitting here staring at these boring white walls and then you'll start hearing my voice." 

"Your voice?" Phil asked dubiously. 

"Of course mine. Who else talks to you as much?" 

"Ohhh," Phil said, hiding his smile. "You mean whose voice do I find more annoying? It's definitely yours." 

"Fuck off," Clint laughed. "You'll go crazy with nothing but papers and white walls to keep you company so you'll start hearing my voice." 

"Uh huh," Phil replied, amused as he signed off on his paperwork. 

"So you should go back into the field instead of cooping up here. You wouldn't want to be stuck listening to my voice forever without at least getting to see my handsome face." 

"Maybe I'll just get so tired of your voice; I'll start hallucinating your face too." 

Clint laughed, relaxing onto the couch. "It's gonna be weird without you, sir." 

"You'll have Natasha and Steve," Phil pointed out. 

"I've known you longer." 

Phil sighed. "I'm not going anywhere, Barton. I'll be right here, at my desk, doing all your paperwork." 

"You could just make me do my own," Clint retorted, grinning at him. 

"You're impossible." 

Phil mostly did Clint's paperwork for him because he had the time for it. (He usually did Romanov's too, but Rogers was always prompt with his work). Since he had started leading Strike Team Delta, he'd been too busy to run Fury's errands. Tracking down Banner and Stark, talking to them about their choices had left them here. But he knew Fury wanted him to take a look over some other files and he probably wanted to send him in to talk to Stark again. If the man could be a team player, was willing to be a team player and work with Captain Rogers, they had a good chance at completing the Avengers. There was no point in risking contacting Banner and potentially losing him to the winds again unless they had Stark on board. And he definitely wasn't too amenable to being part of a team. But as Phil had said, having three Avengers working seamlessly together was better than none. And considering that both Natasha and Clint had issues with authority, it was a situation where it was better to get it over sooner rather than later. The best case scenario for all of them would be one where the Avengers were never needed, where four of five members would remain completely unaware of the fact that they were being considered for such a project. 

"Hey Phil?" When Clint said nothing more, Phil made an inquisitive hum, turning to look at him. "You wanna grab dinner tonight?" 

"Sure. What did you have in mind?" Phil could have sworn his heart stopped beating. 

"That, uh, Italian place? Two blocks from your place." 

"Sounds nice. Is Italian a theme for… us?" Maybe Clint would overlook that pause. 

Clint chuckled. "Isn't it supposed to be like the staple of good food?" 

"I think it depends where you come from. But yes Italian and French cuisine are typically higher class restaurants here." 

"Cool. I'll meet you there at six?" Clint rolled to his feet, hands shoved into his pockets. He didn't look at Phil. 

"Yeah, that works," Phil said softly, watching as Clint left his office. 

Part of the reason he had given up his position, was because it put him far away from being able to influence the team's decisions. It put him away from being Clint's commanding officer. They were closer to equals now, even though they had both received promotions. Phil was a Level Eight now that he was staying back, handling more of Fury's operations. Steve was a Level Seven and both Natasha and Clint had risen to Level Fives as they had more than proven themselves in the last two years. As disorienting as this sudden change was going to be for them, it would be better for everyone in the long term. He would never have to worry that rank had anything to do with what was going on between Clint and he. If there was anything between them. 

But Phil fixed his suit and combed his hair and arrived ten minutes early at the restaurant. Clint had apparently called ahead to make reservations and Phil was led to a secluded booth where he sat and skimmed through the menu as he waited for Clint to arrive. Clint turned up five minutes late wearing a Henley with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and jeans so dark they were practically black. He looked… great. Phil actually felt a little guilty that he hadn't stopped at home to change into something less usual. Clint grinned at him a little sheepishly as he sat down across from him. 

"Sorry the bus was the late," he said, picking up a menu. 

"You look great," Phil said, smiling at him, feeling hope rise in his chest. 

"Thanks," Clint said, ducking his head as though he could hide his faint blush. 

Phil smiled to himself, taking a sip of water. He'd had more than enough time to decide on his meal while he was waiting for Clint to arrive. But more and more this was starting to feel like a date. And Phil couldn't be happier about it. 

"Thought anymore about getting an apartment?" Phil inquired. 

"Yeah, actually," Clint said, glancing at him. "I started looking when I got home." 

Phil smiled, relieved to hear it. Hopefully it meant Clint was accepting the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't going to move on him or leave him stranded. He had a home there; he didn't have to live in it for it to be a home though. In Phil's opinion home was a lot more transient a term. Home could simply refer to people. 

"Find any places you liked?" 

"Yeah, a couple. One of them was a loft and the other was a corner apartment with a hell of a view." 

"Those get snatched up quick." 

"I sent them both to the housing account at work," Clint said. "That's what we're supposed to do right?" 

Phil nodded but his response was cut off by their waiter arriving and taking their orders down. Phil was grateful that he didn't have to worry about eating soft foods as he was recovering nicely; Clint ordered the lasagne and Phil wasn't jealous. Not at all. Phil ordered the fettuccine and garlic toast, sharing a smile with Clint. Since Clint had first made dinner, Phil hadn't had an excuse to eat any garlic bread. He was taking the opportunity now. 

"Y'know," Clint said once the waiter had left with their orders. "I always kind of wondered what your family life was like. I mean you probably know more about what mine was like growing up." 

Phil smiled apologetically. "Nature of the job. What can I tell you? My parents both passed away. My father when I was twenty-two –car accident." Phil glanced away. "He was my rock. I didn't really know what to do after he was gone." 

"I'm sorry," Clint murmured softly, reaching over to touch his hand. "I didn't mean to-" 

"You don't have to apologize," Phil said. "I don't get much chance to talk about them." 

"Okay," Clint said, slowly retracting his hand. 

Phil already missed the warmth of his touch. "And my mom passed away five years later. I think –I think she couldn't stand to live without him. But, she tried. She tried." Phil smiled a little sadly. "My father was an Alpha and my mother an Omega. It was a pretty traditional family, minus having two point five kids and a dog. I don't have any siblings, or cousins." 

"What did you want to grow up to be?" 

Phil smiled. "I wanted to be like my dad. I think that's why I went into the army, at first. But it wasn't a good fit for me. One of my C.O's had heard of S.H.I.E.L.D. and she sent in a recommendation for me and I transferred into S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy and finished my military service in their employment. What about you?" he asked cautiously. 

"Well, I think I just thought I was going to perform at the circus forever. It wasn't such a bad lifestyle. I used to think I could do it forever, like Chisholm or Duquesne seemed to. I liked having an audience to play to. Barney was the one who wanted to get away, who had a plan. He started saving up, I think. Not that I could blame him –he was just a stage hand. He didn't know what it was like to be in front of the crowd." 

Phil smiled at him. "I can see that." 

"Oh really?" 

"With the way you show off on ops?" Phil shook his head, smiling good-naturedly at him. "You had to love performing." 

Clint grinned. "Course I did. I was the star of the show." 

The waiter chose that moment to bring their drinks over, flashing a smile at the both of them before disappearing back into the kitchen. And Phil felt himself relaxing, easing into the dinner date. Whether it was a date or not, didn't matter. Phil didn't care if it was a date. He was spending time with Clint; he had Clint's undivided attention and it was a gift –one he cradled close to his chest. It was a good thing he had left Strike Team Delta in Captain Rogers' hands, he realized as he listened to Clint talk about what he loved most, because Phil was hopelessly in love with the man in front of him. He liked watching how Clint moved his hands when he talked, the way his entire body came alight. He wasn't poised with a sniper rifle or a bow in his hand, keeping perfectly still as he waited to take a kill shot. Here, Clint was looser. At ease in a way Phil was only just starting to see. And it was a very good look on him. 

It was possibly the best date Phil had ever been on and he didn't even know if it was a date. But Clint could make easy jokes and they were easy to follow. There were no secrets between them –Clint knew what Phil did for a living and vice versa. The one conversation that didn't come up between them was work. There was so much else to talk about. Like the fact that Clint's favorite food was pizza, how he had always wanted to have a dog but never had the opportunity. Phil stretched his leg out, his foot bumping against Clint's; Clint who only smiled, but kept his leg there for the rest of the meal. There were casual touches, their hands bumping as they reached for their drinks or napkins. The way that whenever one of them shifted, their knees pressed together underneath the table. The food was good but Phil was more interested in Clint. And he couldn't help hoping that Clint was feeling the same way. 

As Phil reached for his wallet, he caught sight of Clint's glare. "I'll pay. I invited you out." 

Phil agreed after a brief pause, wondering if Clint knew how date-like he sounded, as he returned his wallet to his pocket. So Clint paid for dinner and they headed outside the restaurant. And Phil wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss him. But he just wasn't sure. He didn't want to risk all the trust he had built with Clint over the years. And, in the end, he wasn't left wondering for long. When they were outside the restaurant, Clint set his hand on Phil's and led him out of the doorway. Before Phil could ask if something was wrong, Clint's mouth was on his. Clint was careful, a little tentative, but entirely deliberate as he kissed Phil. Phil, in turn, wrapped his arms around Clint and kissed him back. All of his doubts and questions about whether this was a date or not were answered in that one moment; nothing existed outside of the taste of Clint, the firmness of his biceps underneath Phil's hands and the faint heat of his body next to Phil's. 

Clint pulled away, eyes wide and a little breathless. "We should definitely do that more," he said. 

Phil smiled endearingly at him. "Do you want to come back to my place for drinks?" he asked, reluctantly letting his arms fall to his sides. 

Clint caught his hand easily, "That sounds great." 

Phil couldn't help the grin he flashed at Clint. "I think so too," he admitted. 

They walked the two blocks back to Phil's apartment. Holding Clint's hand was too much and yet not enough at the same time, a pleasant torture as all he wanted to do was touch more of Clint. Clint seemed to feel the same way as every few seconds they would share a look, longing and hungry for more of the other. There was a palpable tension between them; their energy was electric and wild, waiting to burst as they walked in silence. It was a relief when Phil fumbled his key in his lock and managed to get the door open. They tumbled through it, laughing, and Phil had only just shut his door before Clint was kissing him again. Phil wasn't sure when but between one kiss and the next, he'd slid his hand under Clint's shirt and was taking as much time as he could to appreciate his body. Clint didn't seem to feel the same though, shifting as he trailed kisses along Phil's jaw, his hands deftly undoing Phil's tie. His shirt was next, shoved off his shoulders and Phil didn't care that it was going to be wrinkled tomorrow. 

"An undershirt and everything," Clint said with a sigh, but he was smiling. "You're like a present I have to unwrap." 

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't rip my clothes, they're expensive," Phil pointed out, feeling heat spreading over his body the longer Clint looked his fill. Phil had no doubts about whether Clint was enjoying the view or not; he was. 

"Promise I won't rip 'em off, sir," Clint purred. Phil groaned in protest. "You like when I call you that, sir?" he teased. 

"It does things it shouldn't since I hear it about fifty times a day," Phil explained. Actually, that was probably a low estimate. 

Clint hummed, stepping closer to untuck Phil's shirt casually. "Do you like it when they do it?" 

"Just you," Phil answered. 

Clint grinned, kissing him thoroughly. "I like seeing you like this," Clint murmured breathlessly, "all casual and everything." 

"It's hardly casual," Phil protested. It was still a suit. Or part of a suit, at this point. "When you were over cooking me dinners, I was more casual than this." 

Clint nodded in agreement. "Pajamas, sir. They really suit you." 

Phil chuckled, groaning, "How do you do this to me?" 

"How do I do what, sir?" Clint asked, grinning at him. He knew exactly what he was doing. 

Phil kissed him instead, curling his fingers into the soft fabric of Clint's shirt, tugging him close. Clint was relaxed and pliant beneath his hands, allowing Phil's tongue to explore his mouth. They kissed slow and sensual, like they had all the time in the world. There were no impending crises and they were off from work –as far as Phil was concerned, they had more than enough time. Clint seemed in no rush either, almost lazily dragging his hand up Phil's bare chest. They hadn't yet left the living room but both of them were without shirts, content for the time being to explore the other. 

"I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do this," Phil murmured against his lips. 

Clint stroked along the back of Phil's neck, his roughened hands sending pleasant shudders down Phil's body. "That long?" he asked, sounding a little surprised. 

"Too long," Phil said. 

"Same," Clint said softly, smiling at him. 

Phil closed the distance between them, delighting in the feel of Clint's body against his own. Clint seemed to feel the same way, his hand settling on his ass as he pushed their hips together. There was no friction, but Phil could feel the heavy weight of Clint pressing against him and he knew Clint would be able to feel Phil. Clint groaned into Phil's mouth, as if just the touch of him, the knowledge that Phil wanted this as much as Clint was too much for him. Their kiss got messier; Clint's hold on him tightening as Phil's hands glided across his abs appreciatively. Clint gave a breathy chuckle, the sound trapped in the not-quite space between them as he ground his hips against Phil's. 

"Maybe we should take this into the bedroom?" Phil gasped, pulling back. 

"Here I thought you'd never ask," he husked, "lead the way, sir." 

Clint stepped back reluctantly, and Phil didn't let him go far, catching his hand between his own as he led him towards his bedroom. Unsurprisingly, given that it was Clint who had started this, he tugged Phil against him, his fingers wrapped around Phil's belt loops. Clint kissed him senseless, easily brushing his tongue against Phil's, distracting him from the fact that Clint was slowly and surely undoing Phil's pants. But he could feel everything Clint was doing to him and he was content to let the man have his way. Phil was startled when Clint turned them around, shoving him onto his bed. In one fluid movement, Clint dropped to his knees and pulled Phil's slacks off, tossing them aside carelessly. 

"Should I be worried that I'm not American enough for you, sir?" Clint asked, his voice a low husk as he gazed up at Phil, index finger trailing along the edge of his red-white-and-blue boxers. 

"Didn't know I was getting asked out tonight," Phil croaked his voice little more than a whisper. He spared a moment to be grateful Clint hadn't noticed – 

"I think it's that you weren't expecting to get naked tonight," Clint corrected, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Wait. Is that –is that Captain America's shield?" 

Phil would go to his grave denying it if he had to. But the loud echo of Clint's laughter was a welcome sound –and even if he was right –which he wasn't –it was good to hear. 

"No, definitely not," Phil said adamantly, fighting to keep from blushing. 

"Oh really?" Clint asked, smirking at him. "What is it then?" He dragged his finger across the shield, located right at the top of Phil's hip. 

"It's, just the uh, company logo," Phil said, and even to him it sounded like a lie. Probably because it was one, and a poor one at that. 

Clint laughed again, but there was no derision to it. He leaned forward suddenly, a warm smile stretched across his face. "Not the sexiest thing, sir. But that's okay." And he pressed a light kiss to Phil's thigh. "I think you more than make up for it." 

Phil made an undignified sound, tugging at Clint's arms until the other man was almost lying beside him. "You're wearing too many clothes," he said in answer, kissing Clint deeply. He didn't take as much time as he might have liked to, as he undid Clint's jeans and practically peeled them from his body. "How tight do these need to be?" Phil asked, once he'd managed to pull the offending fabric off. 

Clint chuckled lazily, beaming up at him. "I needed to make my ass look good." 

"Your ass always looks good," Phil murmured, smiling as he leaned in and kissed Clint. 

Kissing Clint was perfect –there was no other way to describe it. He shifted closer and they were getting more intimate. Clint curled his arm around Phil's back, his hand resting on his lower back as he dragged his other hand through Phil's hair. Clint got impatient first, hooking his leg around Phil's before rolling them over. He pulled back, nipping briefly at Phil's lip before trailing hot kisses down Phil's neck. Phil inhaled softly, stretching out under Clint's touch. Phil kept his hands resting on Clint's back, enjoying the feel of his muscles rippling with each movement as Clint kept himself occupied by sucking a hickey onto Phil's collarbone. And then Clint was kissing down his stomach with intent, sparing a moment to make eye contact as he pulled Phil's boxers down. Clint was a very dedicated lover, a fact which Phil was both surprised and overjoyed to learn. Clint swallowed him down and soon the room was filled with the sound of Phil's moaning but he couldn't bring himself to mind. He shouted a hoarse warning, but Clint didn't seem to mind as he continued until Phil was breathless and sated. 

And then Clint was on the bed, next to him and Phil wasted no time in divesting Clint of his underwear before his hands were on him. Clint squirmed under him, arching into Phil's every touch. Phil loved every sound that fell from Clint's lips as the other man came with a low groan. Phil spent a few minutes kissing along Clint's torso, taking a moment to suck a mark of his own on Clint's chest. Before long, Clint was tugging Phil down until they were kissing and whatever thoughts Phil had remaining vanished. Instead there was nothing but the sound and feel of Clint beside him, his hands roaming over his body. They each basked in the presence of each other, but soon their breathless pants edged into moans and Phil could feel the way Clint was pressed against him. Phil reached over, fumbling only when Clint tweaked his nipple, his breathy chuckle echoing in the bedroom. Phil half groaned, half laughed as he pulled out a condom and lube from his bedside table and smacked them against Clint's side. It was a question as much as a statement and Clint leaned over, eyes wide and very much interested. 

"Want you," he mumbled, tugging Phil over him and the discussion was over before it had ever really started. 

It didn't take long before Clint was groaning, promising that he was ready. But Phil took his time, making no secret of the fact that he was enjoying the way Clint was alternating between cursing and begging for him. When Phil finally rolled the condom on and brought them together, it was bliss. Clint's eyes fluttered shut, a quiet moan falling from his lips. He was beautiful. Phil caressed his side, feeling the way he shuddered around him. Clint shifted and it dragged a groan from Phil as he leaned down, kissing him irresistibly. Clint returned the kiss eagerly and pulled on Phil's hips impatiently. Obligingly, Phil began moving his hips and Clint pulled back to groan breathily as his own hips twitched in response. Phil reached between them, wrapping his hand around Clint as he thrust. Clint keened in response, throwing his head back against the pillows and Phil licked a strip along his exposed neck, growling low in the back of his throat. Clint was his. He didn't want to have to share Clint with anyone but that was a conversation for another time. Phil pulled back before he could do something stupid, like lay a claim, and instead channeled his energy back into pleasuring Clint. From the way his fingers were digging into Phil's hips and the way he was becoming less coherent he knew it wouldn't be long. With a few more thrusts, Clint came with a shout and Phil followed seconds later. 

"That was –something else," Clint panted. "I liked it." 

Phil laughed shakily and grabbed his hand, kissing along his knuckles in wordless agreement. It was something special. Or, it could be something special one day. Clint was half-asleep by the time Phil set about cleaning up after them. Clint gave a soft whine, catching Phil's hand and trying to drag him back to bed. Phil kissed his temple instead. 

"You'll thank me in the morning," he told him, dragging the damp cloth across his stomach. He had to get up anyways and dispose of the condom. 

Clint grumbled in sleepy protest and Phil couldn't resist smiling like a love-struck fool. Which, he probably was. After putting the cloth aside, he crawled back into bed next to Clint. Clint was still awake, blinking drowsily at Phil as he hesitantly moved closer. When Clint let him, he gently wrapped his arm around him. Clint smiled at him cheekily and pecked him lightly. 

"Guess I'm staying the night?" he mumbled. 

Phil just rolled his eyes. "No, I'm evicting you from my bed. You're like a space heater." 

"You like it," Clint slurred, his eyes drifting shut. 

"I do," Phil replied softly, slowly reaching out to brush his fingertips through Clint's fine hair. 

Clint started spending more time at Phil's both before work and after work. Phil was more grateful than he could say that Strike Team Delta didn't have any current missions as it gave him more time to spend with Clint. When he next ran into Natasha, she was in the middle of the cafeteria, and arched an eyebrow at him. She then looked between him and Clint and smiled knowingly. Despite having run into Steve several times throughout the week, the captain didn't comment on anything. Steve was a fairly astute man and Phil was willing to put it at fifty-fifty whether or not he knew what was going on. It was just as likely that Steve didn't want to invade their privacy and as such was minding his own business. If that was the case, then that made him the first person at S.H.I.E.L.D. to do so since he had driven Clint back to work. And really, there was nothing inappropriate about it. No one even saw them enter at the same time, but apparently everyone knew about it. 

Phil was in his office for five minutes before he changed his mind and headed down to Maria's office. If she or Jasper heard about it from someone other than him, rumor mill gossip or not, he would never hear the end of it. He probably wasn't going to hear the end of it from them either. Earlier that morning he and Clint had discussed what they were going to do. 

"We're in this together," Clint had said with an easy shrug. "I don't care if everyone knows." 

If two years ago someone had told him he was going to be dating Clint Barton, Phil probably would have decked them. Just on the principle of the thing. But two years had apparently changed a lot of things for the both of them. He filled out the paperwork two days after his first date with Clint but he didn't file it and he didn't tell Maria or Jasper the truth. He said that Clint was apartment shopping and Phil had gone to help him and they'd lost track of time. Maria definitely didn't believe him, but she let his excuse go. Jasper took it as fact. The rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. was buzzing at the possibilities but Clint just gave everyone a different story and Phil glared them into submission. What he had with Clint was too new for him to feel comfortable sharing it just yet. His relationship was Clint was perhaps the most seriously relationship he could remember being in; it meant so much to Phil. 

He filed the paperwork after their fifth date. He told Maria the same day. She hugged him. He told Jasper a few days later and got another hug for his trouble. Fury at least didn't hug him, but Phil found a congratulatory present at his apartment. It was a box full of condoms, lube and a set of handcuffs. Phil refused to touch but when Clint found the box, there was no dissuading him. (He really liked the handcuffs). Steve called the team together and officially notified them that due to his emotional connection to Clint, Phil would no longer be their ground support. No one was surprised and Phil was relieved that Clint didn't immediately tense up. But he did worry. Because in the back of his mind, he could just hear Clint's voice begging him not to leave. And although Phil wouldn't admit it to anyone, let alone himself, sometimes late at night when Clint wasn't sleeping next to him, he wondered whether Clint had come to him because he was afraid of losing him. Phil had just left the team, after all. It wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. Nor was the fact that Clint might have been harboring feelings for him for some time and his leaving the team had provided Clint with the opportunity he'd been waiting for. But Phil didn't like thinking about that, so he didn't. 

Clint was in Argentina with Natasha and Steve when the S.H.I.E.L.D. security team declared the loft apartment was safe for him. The finance department funded it and they had everything put into Clint's name. Honestly, all things considered it was possibly the best birthday present Clint could have gotten. He came back just in time for the first dump of snow they'd had and he spent the entire time complaining. Until he saw the email and begged and pleaded for Phil to come and see his apartment. 

"My own apartment, Phil," Clint had said, all smiles. "I have my own apartment now. Aren't you proud of me?" 

And Phil had said, "Always," and kissed him on the mouth. 

Then Clint had dragged him to his apartment and Phil had to admit that he was very impressed. It was a nice place and he was a little jealous of the view. A fact that Clint liked to lord over him whenever the opportunity presented itself –which was surprisingly often. 

"Keep bragging about your view and I won't help you move in," Phil said at last. He liked his apartment just fine, but Clint's was going to be a work of art when he was done with it. 

"Aw sir," Clint purred, and he knew exactly what that word could do to Phil. 

Phil shot him an exasperated glance and Clint sat back down on the couch from where he had started to rise. 

For Clint's birthday, they celebrated by christening every room. Or so Clint said. Phil also bought take-out that they didn't get around to eating until was cold, though neither of them could complain. And Phil had also bought him a book on the history of archery which focused primarily on traditional archery posture and the tricks they used to perform. Clint loved it, if the fact that Phil caught him trying out some of the shots and poses in the range said anything about it. 

And as Clint had predicted not too long ago, Phil was slowly going insane as he sat at his desk doing paperwork. When he went to Fury to request getting back on field work –not that he'd ever left it –Fury made him take his qualifiers. More as an 'I-told-you-so' than anything else but Phil headed down to the gym with the other agents. Most of them were around Agent Singers' age, close to retiring but not quite. Others were more like Rumlow, sent in an attempt to keep them in line. Not quite a punishment. But Phil passed with perfect scores in the hand-to-hand qualifiers and other combat areas, not really a surprise considering who he'd spent the last two years sparring with. Those three were a handful to keep up with. His accuracy wasn't perfect; he wasn't Hawkeye, but it was his average. He was still in shape. And he was honestly surprised at himself. He'd been sitting at a desk for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to hold his gun, much less shoot it. When he took his scores to Fury as ordered, the other man smirked at him. 

"You ready to get back into the field, agent?" he asked. 

"Yes sir." 

"Good. Put together a team and get to Algeria. We think Hydra's been sniffing around and we want to know why." 

"On it, sir," Phil said, picking up the folder Fury tossed his way. 

"And Coulson?" Phil paused at the door. "Glad to have you back." Fury smirked, just the slightest shift of his mouth but Phil recognized it for the well-wishing it was. 

Phil pulled a couple of Strike agents from different teams, but he didn't call on anyone from Strike Team Delta. For one, they were otherwise occupied and secondly he needed to do this one on his own. It was too easy for the other agents to forget that he was just human, just average. No special shooting like Barton, no enhancements like Steve or Natasha. Phil picked a few other agents from different sectors; ones he knew would respect his orders. Agent Morse, Agent Hale and Agent Martin none of them would stand for agents like Rumlow or his friends. It certainly made the information retrieval mission more exciting than it needed to be, but they accomplished their goal and returned to base within a week. Strike Team Delta returned at the same time and Phil had to take a moment to wrap his Agent Coulson persona around him when he saw Clint limping off the plane. 

"It's just a sprained ankle," Clint said, as he sat on the examination table in the doctor's room. "I'm barely even bruised." 

That night they went to Clint's apartment and watched the sunset together while eating greasy pizza. Clint leaned against him and it was a good date. It was a good day. But Phil got busier with his own missions and Strike Team Delta started spending more time in the field. When their schedules matched up, they spent as much time as they could wrapped up together in bed. They hadn't been dating for more than six months and Phil found that every time he wanted to ask Clint, to ask him 'how long', he couldn't. Mostly because he was worried what Clint's answer would mean. But it wasn't a fear he would hold onto forever. And, honestly, whatever Clint's answer, the fact was that they were together. Even if Clint said –even if –Clint had decided to date him to keep him around, Phil wasn't sure that he could leave Clint because of it. Not the healthiest reason for a relationship, but it was something they could work on. Clint's life had given him more than enough reasons to believe that people wouldn't stick around. If he had to, Phil would prove it to him. Despite the risks, despite knowing every time one of them left, the other might not come back, Phil never did say those three words. It was too soon, they hadn't been together that long, Phil would rationalize on the nights he was safe at home and Clint wasn't back from a mission. They had rushed into a relationship. And Phil didn't want to rush anything else, at least not yet. 

A few weeks later, Fury called him into his office and laid out the news. There was a spike in Hydra activity and he'd sent Romanov out to race it back to New Mexico. The energy readings they had taken from the area were unusually high and no one had any explanation for it. 

"I'm putting Strike Team Delta on this," Fury said, leaning back in his seat. "I want you to put together a team and flank the building, Hill's gonna be waiting with her own team at the back. I'm going to be here," he said, gesturing at the map, "waiting with a team to arrest these Hydra agents. I want to know what they're doing to cause all of this." 

"Yes sir," Phil said, nodding as he studied the map. "I'm going to request Agent May join us for this." 

"Good luck with that one, Coulson," Fury said with a laugh. "We've got three days to prepare." 

"What do you want us to do, sir?" Captain Rogers' asked warily. "Bait the enemy out?" 

"I want you to do what Strike Team Delta does best, Captain. Scatter them, terrify them and chase them out to us. We'll be ready." 

Maria gave a decisive nod. "I've put my team together, sir. We'll be ready." 

Steve didn't appear relieved by the plan either. "If there are enough Hydra agents to warrant three separate S.H.I.E.L.D. teams I don't know if it's a good idea to just send us in." 

"You make a good point, Captain," Phil murmured, eyeing the numbers. 

"If we let them take us prisoner though," Steve said thoughtfully, "that might work. It'll give us a vantage to work from." 

Fury inclined his head in consideration. "I can see how that would work. When do you want to go in?" 

"Give us twelve hours," Steve said, standing up. "Twelve hours before you get into position. Drop us in and we'll take care of it." 

"Done. You have two days to prep your team captain. Dismissed." 

Steve saluted and left the room. 

"What if they run late, sir?" Maria asked, crossing her legs as she examined the map. 

"We'll work our way inside, if we have to," Fury said. "So long as we shut this thing down." 

"Sir," Maria said slowly, flipping over one of the pages. "This energy reading –" 

"Yeah," Fury said darkly. "It's got more power than a damn nuclear bomb. I don't know what they're cooking up down there, but we're putting an end to it." 

"Absolutely sir." 

But something about it left a bad taste in Phil's mouth, a dark feeling squirming in his gut. Something about this wasn't right. But no matter how long he poured over the maps, the data, he couldn't figure out what was bothering him. And Clint was determined to make sure he didn't get to the bottom of it, as he turned up in time for dinner to start harassing Phil out of his office. It was Clint –he always did it –and Phil let Clint lead him down to the cafeteria, more certain that something was wrong with this plan than before. But in the two days of preparation they had, Phil couldn't figure it out. He kissed Clint goodbye, and watched as he boarded the quinjet next to Rogers and Romanov. And then he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've updated twice today but it would mean so, so much to me if I still hear from you guys on both chapters. I'm dying for feedback, to know if you're still interested in where I'm taking this and to know that I'm still doing this story right. (With the way things are going, chapter thirteen will still be done and ready to be posted next week. I'm a quarter of the way through it.)
> 
> <3 to you all.


	13. The Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Avengers' to happen...

From the start, everything went pear-shaped. It wasn't like Hydra was expecting them, but they led Clint away from Natasha and Steve. They hadn't seemed to recognize him on sight or have orders to kill him immediately so he went with them. But all they did was put him in a cell with two other Omegas –and of course they did, because Steve was an Alpha and Natasha was a Beta. As far as Hydra was concerned, last time Clint had checked in, Alphas and Betas were bad influences on their delicate Omegas. His new cellmates glanced up as the Hydra agents hauled him to his cell before checking him for weapons yet again. Clint flashed the bulkier of the agents a charming smile as they pulled his last knife free of his boot. The Hydra agent rolled his eyes and forcefully shoved Clint into the cell with the other two Omegas. Clint got to his feet and made a show of sitting down next to the wall. They had let him keep his S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform which meant the white eagle insignia was apparent. He watched the way the woman glanced at her male companion and he in turn darted his gaze to the insignia before looking back to her –which rude, Clint was sitting right there. 

"I work for S.H.I.E.L.D," he said, pointing to the eagle emblazoned on his jacket. 

"Are you here to rescue us?" the woman asked, her doe eyes lighting up. 

"In a manner of speaking," Clint answered. "We didn't know they had prisoners here." 

She sighed heavily, her whole body falling back with the motion. It was only the cot behind her that stopped her from hitting the floor. "Yeah. For a couple of weeks." 

"Shit, that's rough." 

"You're telling me," drawled the other Omega. He was an older man, mostly brown hair that was going grey pretty quickly. He looked to be around forty or fifty years old, his blue eyes alert despite the fatigue weighing his body down. 

Clint didn't say that he knew what they were going through. In his experience, connecting with someone based on shared torture experiences didn't leave anyone feeling better. Also, in a month they probably hadn't seen the fullest extent of Hydra's torture techniques and terrifying them of it in case they had to go through it again probably wasn't going to help anyone. 

"Well I'm here with friends," Clint said. "And we're gonna get you guys out of here." 

"Friends?" laughed the man. "I don't see your friends around here." 

"Erik stop," hissed his companion. "Darcy's not with us. His friends could just be in the same cell as hers." 

"Probably are," Clint said. "Have either of you guys heard of S.H.I.E.L.D. before?" At their blank expressions, Clint decided that he would have to take that as a no. "We're trained to get out of situations like these. So yeah, my friends and I will get you and your friend out of here." 

The couple shared another long look, silently communicating with each other. Father and daughter, perhaps? Either way it was the woman who turned to him first. 

"Jane Foster," she said, stretching out her hand. 

"Clint Barton," he said after a quick glance to make sure no Hydra agents would overhear it. He didn't want to risk anything unnecessary. He shook her hand politely and turned to the older man. 

"Erik Selvig," he answered, obviously wary, but he shook Clint's hand firmly. 

Clint took another moment to scan his surroundings. The cell they were in was more like a built-in cage that was just big enough to fit two cots and provide limited walking space. With three people it was rather crowded. Outside of the bars, Clint could see that he appeared to be in a workspace of some sort. There were papers strewn everywhere and instruments he couldn't identify; on the far wall overlooking the work tables was a giant screen. Probably to show them what their failures cost them, knowing Hydra. Clint glanced back towards his fellow captives, reviewing the fact that neither of them had calloused hands. They didn't do a lot of work with their hands, then. 

"Do they have you in here cooking up some kind of nuclear bomb but bigger?" Clint asked. Why else would Hydra take captives? They had their own scientists; twisted perverts who did things no one else would. They were willing to cross every line and use whatever shortcuts they thought they could find. It never turned out well for them or anyone they'd involved in their plans. 

Jane's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Not exactly," she said, sharing another glance with Selvig. 

"It's an energy source," Selvig said, and for the first time he seemed almost excited. "They're trying to harness it for something. Yesterday it suddenly turned on. And now they're all…" He gestured at the empty room around them. 

"Usually there are guards," Jane said. "They keep the room full because they're worried –" she broke off suddenly, glancing at Selvig. 

"They're worried she'll contact someone for help. So they usually station two of their scientists to monitor her. They have me working in another room." 

"What are they getting you to do?" Clint asked, watching Jane. 

"The power source came from somewhere not of earth," she said, a little nervously. "I swear I'm not crazy! They showed it to us. It's beyond our powers. And they grabbed us because I'm an astrophysicist and they figured I could find out the origins of this thing." 

Selvig sighed. "They targeted me because they thought if anyone would understand how the Cube works, it would be me." 

"Lucky for them, we were both in the same place at the same time. Unlucky for us, and for my intern, Darcy," Jane said softly, regret in her eyes. 

"Not your fault," Clint said. "It's theirs. And they'll be the ones to regret it." 

Clint spared another glance around the abandoned room but he didn't spot a single camera. Wary in case it was located out of sight, he shuffled forward and brought the scientists up to speed on what S.H.I.E.L.D. was planning if nothing for their peace of mind. Jane especially. In turn, they both shared what they had learned. Most of it went over Clint's head. But he did understand the basics: the Cube had enough power in it to wipe out the entire planet and Hydra wanted to control that power; the Cube was not of Earth and Jane theorized that it was related to some kind of wormhole bridge that had _–maybe –_ occurred around ten thousand years ago if not longer which connected Earth's solar system with some other system, possibly belonging to aliens. Jane and Selvig both used words a lot bigger than that, but Clint did his best to understand what they were talking about. Jane shared her own plans too –that she had been trying for the last month to get word outside by using some complex space equipment receiver (apparently it wasn't really a receiver though, it was a transmitter and she had been provided it under the pretense of using it to transmit data from the Cube –and no, transmitters didn't work that way but no one had called her on her bluff) to send distress signals to NASA and the NSA. But given the nature of the low-quality equipment as well as the presence of guards, she hadn't been able to watch as she sent out both distress signals only days apart. 

And Clint knew for a fact that if that call had reached either organization, it would have been included in the file. And since it wasn't? Her distress call had definitely not reached anyone on Earth who might have been willing to help. On his list of top reassuring things to say, that was definitely not on it. For the record, his number one reassurance was "Natasha will take care of it" and his second was "Coulson's got this covered." Steve was third and Hill was fourth. He supposed, since he had time to think about it, if someone told him Fury was going to take care of it that while he would be reassured by it, he certainly wouldn't feel any safer about it. Fury probably cared more about the result than the means. If Fury's goal was to get Clint out alive and he blew up the building in the process and Clint was left severely injured but alive, it would be a success to the man. Provided he didn't die of his injuries, of course. It was a method that worked for Fury, it got him places and it meant things got done. The world kept on spinning and S.H.I.E.L.D. went into countries and saved Omegas, damning political ties between America and countries like Myanmar. So he reminded himself of the plan, of the fact that Coulson and Hill were going to be outside in a few hours waiting for the signal and that even if he couldn't get out of the cell, Steve and Natasha would be able to get out of theirs. The situation was completely under their control. 

Except before Clint had a chance to even try escaping from the cell, the doors slammed open and a group of Hydra agents swarmed inside, chattering to themselves. They must have known something about who he was because even as he moved into place, one of the agents approached with a Taser that he waved in Clint's direction threateningly. Clint stepped away from the edges, crowding closer to where Jane and Selvig had been huddled. One of the guards pulled out a set of keys and opened the doors, gesturing them forward. Clint stepped forward first, scanning the guards around them. It would be too easy for the guards to use either astrophysicist as a hostage. The Hydra agents stepped in close, herding them together before handcuffing them and then marching them from the room. They were led down a flight of stairs, into what was a glorified dungeon –except instead of instruments of torture; there were a lot of scientific items. At least that was what Clint was guessing they were, considering he recognized nothing. In the center of the room was a small blue glowing cube, chained to a round pillar that was aiming at the far end of the room. 

"She is active," Selvig said, his voice trembling. "There's been a spike since yesterday." 

They were separated, then. Selvig was led towards a series of computers where the monitors were showing what had to be the Cube's activity levels judging by the graphs on their screens. The Hydra agents didn't seem to know what to do about the activity either, it appeared. Everywhere Clint turned, he saw the Hydra goons clutching their guns tightly, their expressions pinched. They were nervous and uncomfortable and they didn't want to be here. Clint turned his gaze back to the Cube. Whatever it was, it wasn't good. 

"It's like a portal to the other side of space," Jane murmured under her breath. "This is monumental. If we could have time to study it –it's potentially a source of unlimited energy!" Her face fell. "If we could study it _properly_ ," she added, staring almost mournfully at the alien technology. 

Wait if it was – 

"Fix it now!" screamed one of the goons, aiming his gun towards Jane and Clint. "If you do not get this under control I will shoot them!" 

"No!" Selvig cried, reaching towards them. Three Hydra agents turned their weapons on him. "No, please. I don't know how to fix this. I need more time to-to research and study." 

"Control it, doctor!" snarled the goon, stepping closer to Jane. "We need that energy before any more S.H.I.E.L.D. agents arrive!" 

Just then there was a concussive blast of energy that knocked everyone off their feet. Silence fell, for just a moment, before the panicking kicked in. Beside him, Jane was oddly still. 

"What opens at one end, must open at another," Clint said darkly, easing back onto his feet. He had to try something. Because this? Whatever this was would result in nothing good. Alien energy sources should be left alone or thrown back into space. Not played with by a bunch of clueless Hydra agents. 

"Shut it down!" the goons were yelling, at Selvig, at each other. 

Selvig was cowering and trying to explain why it was impossible for him to do what they were asking. Despite all the chaos, the echoing clap of thunder was hard to miss. 

"Doors open from both sides," Clint said quietly, staring at the Cube in growing horror. "What if this is the other side opening?" He glanced at Jane, but her face had lost what little color it had –whether in horror or elation, he couldn't tell –but she had no answers for him. 

The Cube flared bright blue, tinged with white. Another peal of thunder rumbled around them and the very earth seemed to quake in fear. Above them, a ceiling tile cracked and fell to the floor a few feet from Clint and Jane. But their attention was completely centered on the pillar containing the Cube and the way the spokes around it had started to rotate. A focused blast of white light –pure energy –streamed out from the cube and towards the end of the room. A cerulean sphere seemed to gather at the end of the room instead of shooting out the wall and just as abruptly as it had all started, it was over. There was a concussive blast of wind that wasn't even strong enough to knock anyone over and it was so bright Clint could only just make out the form of someone kneeling where the sphere had been moments ago. When the light had vanished, Clint realized it wasn't just one person. The man in green and black was standing with a spear aimed at a giant blonde man. 

The black-haired man pulled away, a triumphant smirk plastered on his face. At his feet, the blonde man did not move. Hydra agents were not without their own training and they flew into cautious motion, approaching the –alien? He looked remarkably human for being alien –with their guns raised. It was then that Clint noticed the alien's spear was glowing just the same as the Cube. 

"Lower your weapon or we'll shoot!" shouted the goon standing closest to Selvig. 

The black-haired man glanced at his spear curiously, and then over to the goon who had spoken. He smirked and shot an energy blast at the speaker. One of his peons jumped forward and took the hit instead, dropping to the floor, his clothes smoking. The peon didn't get back up again. The guards opened fire and Clint slammed his elbow into Jane's side, knocking her out of the way of a wayward energy blast. If he'd been a fraction of a second slower, the glowing orb would have taken out his arm. By that point the fight was on, as the Hydra agents opened fire on the alien. Clint was struggling to get free of his handcuffs as he stayed low and tried to avoid catching anyone's attention. Jane seemed to have caught on quickly as she ducked out of his sight behind a computer station. The whiz of each blast of the alien's spear was audible even as the Hydra agents cried out in agony and Clint shuffled around, searching for the guard who had handcuffed him in the first place. He was lying on the floor, just beside the desk Clint was currently using to take shelter with. 

Clint carefully peered around the desk, noticing that the alien had finished firing at the few remaining Hydra agents. He was relieved to see Selvig still standing as he crept towards the guard with the keyring. But the alien had no interest in him; his gaze was affixed on the Cube. Clint took the opportunity to grab the keyring and blindly feel for which key would unlock his handcuffs. Not for the first time was he grateful that he had been raised in a circus –the added flexibility and dexterity were useful as he worked through each key patiently until he found the right key. His handcuffs clicked as the lock opened and he quietly slipped them off, one eye on the alien as he deposited the cuffs and keyring onto the floor. He eased forward, taking the handgun from the Hydra agent. He was not going to fight against an alien without a weapon in his hand. 

"Well," he purred and the sound echoed in the silent room as he turned away from the Cube. "Earth certainly has changed since my last visit." He tilted his head to the side, regarding Clint curiously. "You, and you," he said, sparing a glance in Selvig's direction. "What are you?" 

"Human," Clint growled, raising his gun protectively. 

"Obviously," he deadpanned. He twirled his spear, pointing it towards Clint. 

Clint didn't wait to see what the alien was going to do next as he rolled forward and fired. The bullet went right where he wanted it to, but it was like a force field stopped it from burying itself in the alien's head. His opponent threw an energy orb his way and Clint rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the blast. 

"I don't have time for this," sighed the alien. "Tell me what you are before I kill you. Women, females, where I'm from are the only ones capable of bearing children where I'm from." 

"How are you able to tell that?!" Clint demanded, offended. It wasn't something people spoke about over tea and biscuits. 

The strangely human-looking alien merely arched a brow, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm a God. How do you think?" 

Before Clint could fire back an insult, Selvig was speaking. "Biological evolution. Disease and wars nearly ended humankind so they evolved in order to ensure the perseverance of the human race. Some men can bear children –Omegas, like him and I. Women can of course bear children but Omegas are more fertile than Betas and Betas more fertile than Alphas." 

The alien gave a thoughtful hum at that. 

"Who are you?" Selvig asked carefully. 

Ah, he was trying to make a trade of information, Clint realized. Clever. 

"I am Loki of Asgard," he said, sounding almost bored. "And I come with glad tidings, of a world made free." 

"Free from what?" Clint demanded, staring at him skeptically. 

Loki turned to him. "From freedom," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Freedom is life's great lie and once you accept that, in your heart, you will know peace." 

Clint snorted. "You'll get along great with Hydra," he growled, firing at Loki again. The bullet did nothing. "We're just fine the way we are. You can go back where you came from!" 

Loki aimed his spear and Clint dove out of the way –but he wasn't quite fast enough. The energy ball didn't hit him directly but it knocked him further aside, practically rolling him across the floor. Clint groaned, keeping a firm grip on his weapon as he got to his feet. But Loki was faster yet again, practically flying into his space and pinning his hand to the wall. His only weapon, useless. Loki stared at him and Clint was uncomfortably aware of how close the other man was, of how prying his cold silver eyes seemed to be. 

"You have heart," the alien said and he brought his spear up, resting its point against Clint's chest. 

_No –_ the words were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't seem to form them. He moved his leg, intending to kick the god or the alien or whatever he was but – 

A wave of cool air washed over him and the world dimmed down to nothing but shades of calming blue. And at last, he knew peace. Loki stepped back and Clint holstered his weapon. Loki was not his target. No, his target was getting Loki out of here safely. Agent Rogers and Agent Romanov were still here somewhere and they posed the greatest security risk, not to mention however many remaining Hydra agents. Loki walked away, towards Selvig and the last standing Hydra goon. He tapped them each with his spear and Clint understood that they had found their peace as well. Selvig ran into motion, grabbing the Cube and placing it inside a briefcase before turning his attention to Loki. It was the Hydra goon who led them forward and Clint brought up the rear. He glanced behind them and saw Jane, running towards the blonde man who lay unmoving. She seemed to be checking him for a pulse, or she was preparing to attempt to drag him to safety. From the corner of his eye he could see the glowing center of destruction, from the excess energy of the Cube. Another quake rocked the earth and more ceiling tiles shattered. The Hydra goon started to run and Clint quickly hurried to catch up. Jane was no threat. 

As they fled from the dungeon, Clint caught sight of Agent Rogers, blood streaming down his face, dust coating his hair. Agent Rogers' eyes widened in surprise and he raised an arm in greeting. He must have been assuming Clint was still adhering to the mission parameters. Clint drew his weapon and fired, straight at Agent Rogers' chest. The man fell back without a sound and Clint kept pace with the others. 

"What was that?" Loki asked, glancing at him. 

"A hostile, sir. Planning to escape and regroup with S.H.I.E.L.D. so as to understand what took place here." 

"Less witnesses the better," Loki agreed, climbing into the back of the truck that the Hydra goon had picked out. "Now, tell me about this S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra business." 

"Hydra believes freedom is the root of all evil and that by having Alphas in power and Betas supporting them, they are the ones who created this lie of freedom. For people like me, Omegas born in poverty and raised in worse, there is nothing we can do to escape our beginnings. No education and no etiquette, impoverished Omegas can provide nothing but children to their partners. Hydra would see the world run by Omegas because Omegas are more complacent and obedient than others." 

"That implies that someone else would still hold the strings, does it not?" Loki inquired. 

"Yes sir. High ranking Hydra officers would. Alpha or Beta as they believe they are the only ones equipped to ensure the world is properly taken care of." 

"You don't agree?" Now he sounded almost amused. 

"No, sir. It doesn't do jack shit to help anyone if they're going to leave the problem still in place. They don't have the vision for the job, unlike you sir." 

Loki smiled. "Well, not everyone can be a god." He paused. "What do I call you?" 

"Agent Barton, sir." 

"Well, Agent Barton, not everyone can be a god and share such a vision as I. Tell me about S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"S.H.I.E.L.D. just wants a better world, sir. They employ Omegas, teach them how to fight and go around the world preserving those rights ruthlessly. Whatever the cost politically or economically, S.H.I.E.L.D. saves Omegas that are most at risk." 

"What an interesting world," Loki drawled and Clint couldn't tell if the god was bored or not. Possibly bored, because after that he didn't ask any more questions. 

As they drove away, Clint glanced back only to see that the facility had collapsed in on itself. He hoped Agent Rogers and Agent Romanov hadn't survived. He didn't want to have to shoot either of them –also, he wasn't entirely certain that shooting them _would_ kill them. Once they were safely away from the Hydra base, Clint could see the quinjets flying in. Hours early. They must have put some surveillance on the place, of course. He had nothing left on his person they could track him with as Hydra had confiscated his weapon. Loki conferred with Selvig and then the Hydra goon before he asked Clint's opinion on where they could hole up. It took them a few hours but they drove to an abandoned airbase and set up camp there. 

Loki waited for everyone to be settled in before he cornered Clint. "Agent Barton, tell me what defenses S.H.I.E.L.D. will have prepared." 

And for the first time since Loki had brought his spear against Clint, he felt a flicker of fear. A curl of apprehension unfurling in his gut. There were secrets he knew, secrets he wasn't even supposed to know, things he couldn't share –but he couldn't –why? Why couldn't he share them? The secrets brought him no peace. They were dark secrets, weighing on his shoulders. Things he wasn't supposed to know. 

"Director Fury has always been paranoid, sir," he said, with difficulty. "He's been preparing a team of specialized assets equipped to deal with unexpected enemies." 

"The point, Agent Barton?" And there was Loki's mask, slipping up just a bit. Not the polite guise he'd been wearing previously. 

"He's going to call them together. Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow and Hulk." Clint felt physically sick. Like he was going to vomit at any moment. "Iron Man is narcissistic; he's not a team player. Captain America is an excellent fighter, but he can be headstrong and stubborn –he won't tolerate Iron Man's attitude. And Widow is the best fighter, the best spy of them but she's just that. Just a spy. And the Hulk is a giant rage monster. No higher thought processes." As if refusing to say their names, as if denying that they were people would save their lives. 

As a Level Five agent, there were some secrets he was allowed to know. As a member of the Avengers Initiative, he knew who he was expected to fight with. Romanov did too. He didn't know if Rogers knew or not. 

"Tell me about the Black Widow." 

Clint stared at Loki and he felt like he was being torn in two. But he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop the ugly truths that fell from his lips, the secrets Romanov had shared with him. The ones he had learned. The hospital she had set on fire when she was a child, enslaved to the Red Room. The family friend she murdered in cold blood. The first man she had loved, she had taken him to bed and murdered him. It was the reason she refused to seduce targets –she was fully capable, but the nightmares were torture. Clint could feel his eyes welling with tears, but there was no stopping his body. 

Loki smirked and it was as though the god was staring right at his soul. And he did not care. "What about this Captain America?" 

He asked after each Avenger, wringing each truth from Clint. There was one thing he fought to hide though. He wasn't even aware that he was doing it. But as each truth was ripped from him, he knew there was one person he had to protect. (If Loki wanted to know about Bucky he was welcome to it; his mind games might bring his best friend back). It was Phil. Phil was the one thing he wouldn't let Loki know about. Phil was his everything. And he had already given up so much. 

"Tell me about your superiors," he demanded next. It was like he knew. 

So Clint told him about Fury and Hill and Sitwell. But he didn't tell him about Coulson. He _wouldn't._

"Who will mourn you if you die, Agent Barton?" 

He stuttered on the answer. Loki's eyes narrowed, and his spear was pressed back to Clint's chest. But Clint couldn't tell him the answer. He wouldn't. He owed everything to Phil. Everything. Clint bit his tongue so hard he had to spit out the blood and promise that he didn't know of anyone who would mourn him. Not his brother, not his best friend. Not his commanding officers. There was no one. Loki shoved his spear against Clint's chest and the world spiraled into icy hues and his lungs felt like they were on fire; there was nothing but ice. 

"Coulson," he gasped, and it was the very essence of Clint that was bleeding now. And once he had started, he couldn't stop. 

"And what about yourself, Agent Barton? What secrets do you have?" 

He surrendered every secret he knew until there was nothing left of him. He gave up the good parts of his soul but he knew it wasn't enough. So he told Loki everything else as well. It felt like he was being pulled apart, split open… 

Loki smiled, slowly drawing his spear back. "That wasn't so hard, now was it? Find Dr. Selvig what he needs, Agent Barton." 

The pain in his lungs receded and he could breathe again. But there was copper in his mouth and his soul was hanging in tattered shreds. Because there were no secrets he could keep. He went to Dr. Selvig as ordered and his next target presented itself to him. Iridium. He knew where to find it. He waited for Loki to come to him before telling him they needed to go to Stuttgart, Germany. And all Clint needed was a good bow and an eyeball. The plan that was so brilliant in his mind was ghastly. There were other ways, other technologies that he had access to. 

"What truth did the Tesseract show you, Agent Barton?" Loki had asked, watching him knowingly. 

"My next target," he had answered, all too aware of the clock counting down in his skull. They needed to get in and out, fast. So it would have to be an eyeball. Anything else might take more time than they had. He didn't bother to calculate the odds of that. A few phone calls later and he had his back-up bow and two tickets to Stuttgart, Germany. 

If someone were to ask him what it was like, being Loki's puppet, Clint would have described it as sleepwalking. He knew what his body was doing, but he wasn't conscious of it. He wasn't in charge of making the decisions. He could do nothing to stop Loki or his body. He was just along for the ride. Except instead of being dead to the world, soundly asleep and blissfully unaware, he was aware of each excruciating moment. He could see everything. Feel everything. But he could do nothing to stop himself. 

It was worse than when he was Ronin. As Ronin, whatever decisions he made, he made them. He had to live with their consequences. When he didn't agree with Hydra, he was tortured until he did agree. So he agreed to his only option. But now, here with Loki, he couldn't say no. There was no other option despite the numerous ones he could think of. He could not give voice to them because they were not mission prudent. Loki blasted him with the spear once more, before they left the airport and sealed his tattered soul back up. He screamed himself hoarse, begging his body to respond. He couldn't even make his little toe twitch. Outside the world was blue, the world was peace. There was nothing but the next target. 

Whatever Loki asked of him, Clint did. He heard Iron Man and Captain America arrive; Iron Man rather announced their presence. Clint grabbed the iridium and returned to his plane without Loki. He dutifully brought the iridium back to Dr. Selvig and started making phone calls to locate S.H.I.E.L.D; someone always knew something. It was a surprise to learn the Helicarrier had been spotted above ground. The next sixteen calls Clint put in, had a team en route to his location with one target in mind. He had to take the Helicarrier down. As their plane swept over the Helicarrier, Clint was sure Loki's spell was wearing off again as the guilt ate at him. He fired the arrow into the sky, watching as it curved elegantly and blasted a hole into the Helicarrier. There would be no forgiveness for this. 

He led the team into the Helicarrier and climbed into the ducts, heading straight for the command centre. He'd seen the blue prints once or twice. All he needed to do was fire the viral arrow into the USB port to take the craft down. He wasn't surprised that Fury realized it was him first, as he raced back through the air vents towards the position he suspected Loki was at. His next mission was to get Loki to safety, he could understand that. He swung out of the vent, down onto the cat walk. The Helicarrier wasn't as spacious as it could have been. He recognized her presence more so than anything else as he swung to face her, firing an arrow at Agent Romanov. She dodged the arrow and grabbed his bow, twisting it away from him. He pulled it back from her grasp as he held it tight to his chest and rotated his body, kicking at her. But she was fast. He wasn't sure if his kick had connected as she spun around and kicked him in the face before disappearing. He approached where he had last seen her only to realize she had moved around him just as her boot slammed into his gut. 

He grabbed an arrow and fired but she elegantly twisted out of the way, swinging across to the other catwalk. He leaped after her. Clint watched, categorizing all the ways his body was lagging behind. He couldn't remember when he had last eaten or slept. He had been on the move ever since Loki showed up and it was apparent in his fighting. Clint almost laughed as he attacked her with his bow and Natasha neatly dodged each blow. His body seemed to be working on muscle memory alone. She grabbed onto his bow string and Clint tried to stop his body but he couldn't. He slammed the back of his bow against her face. But she didn't let go, she swung her arm up and her elbow nailed him in the face. He stumbled back, his grip on the bow gone and Romanov twisted away, the bow in her possession. But it wasn't like he didn't have other weapons. He pulled out his knife and Clint knew the fight would be over quickly. Romanov had every advantage here. 

They exchanged a flurry of blows and she nearly wrenched his arm from its socket so he tossed the knife to his other hand and tried again. But she grappled with him and her strength was still superior than his own –they were at an impasse. Clint winced when he grabbed her by the hair and was unsurprised to find that she retaliated by biting his arm. It hurt just as much as he expected it would, but his body was not connected to the pain. He just kept on going like nothing had even happened. Natasha had other plans though as she twirled around his arm like an acrobat before using his own momentum to carry him straight into the railing. Clint groaned in pain, staring up at her dazedly. 

"Natasha?" he mumbled, flexing his own fingers once again. His body –his body was his own – He moved to stand up and –no, that wasn't right, he hadn't made that choice! 

Her fist flew out and there was pain. There was a lot of pain. Clint landed on his back as his consciousness disappeared. He came to a blue world, tinged with scarlet red. Clint was restrained and he was grateful for it as he twisted his hands and tried to get his bearings straight. Did he have control back? Was he himself again? 

"Clint, you're going to be alright," Natasha said. 

"You know that?" he asked. "Is that what you know?" He was never going to be alright after this. 

As she moved to get up and reach behind him, the sharp reds and blues clouding his vision faded. He was just himself again. 

"You've got to level out," she said calmly. "It's going to take time." 

"Why am I back?" Clint asked. "How did you get me back?" 

"Cognitive recalibration," she answered. "I hit you really hard in the head." 

"Thanks," he said, quietly. 

But with him fully conscious inside his own body came a whole host of other issues. Obviously Natasha had survived the collapsing building –but had Jane? And what about the blonde man? What about Selvig? And Clint shut his eyes against the knowledge of what he had done. He had led a team of hostiles onto the Helicarrier –fuck, he'd blown up the place. Nearly sunk it. And how many people had died because of him? Not just in the first explosion but those men he'd led on board. And god, the things he'd told Loki. He'd told him about the Avengers. He told him about Phil. 

"Is Steve -?" he asked carefully, terrified of the answer. 

Natasha smiled softly. "It'll take more than a bullet to keep him down. He's fine. He's probably fighting with Stark, right now. They got the third engine up and running again. So we're still in the air." 

Clint let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "I saw him and I just –" How could Steve ever trust him again? 

"Clint," Natasha said firmly. "It wasn't your fault." 

"How many people, Nat?" he asked, scared to look at her. "How many did I –" 

"Don't do that to yourself," she said as she undid the restraints on his arm. "This is Loki and monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for." 

Loki. This was his entire fault. Everything that had happened here today. Loki had made him share those secrets, things that he would never have told anyone. He had been fighting against the spear but a part of himself had surrendered at the first touch and he just rolled over and did whatever the alien demanded of him. 

"Loki –did he get away?" Clint was furious. At himself, at Loki, at the world. 

"Don't suppose you know where?" Natasha asked a little hopeful. 

Clint shook his head. "Didn't need to know, didn't ask." He wanted to. There were a lot of things he would have done differently if he could have. "He's gonna make his play soon though. Today." That was why there was a clock ticking down in his head while he was under Loki's control. There had been a few hours left on the clock when he went under. 

"We've gotta stop him," Natasha said. 

And that was a surprise. "Who's we?" Natasha leading the charge against Loki? 

"Whoever's left," she said. "Steve's still here and so is Stark. I'm here, you're here." 

Loki had gotten to Banner, then. Probably Clint's fault. "Well if I put an arrow through one of that bastard's eye sockets, I'd sleep better I s'pose." 

"Now you sound like you," Natasha said, sitting down beside him. 

"But you don't. You're a spy, not a soldier and now you want to charge into a war? Why –what did Loki do to you?" 

"Nothing," she said softly, but there was a faint tremor in her voice. She looked down at her lap, avoiding his gaze. After a moment she lifted her head again. "I've been compromised," she said evenly. "I've got red in my ledger and I'd like to wipe it out." 

Clint nodded in understanding. Of course she was compromised –he'd been compromised by Loki too. In retrospect, Clint would look back at this moment and wonder how he hadn't known what had happened. She spoke about their friendship like it could be measured by debt but Clint owed her nearly as much as she owed him. They spent a few moments longer in silence before he requested food and Natasha went to go and see what she could find. As Clint waited, he took a slow drink of water and wondered when it was that he would start feeling human again. Natasha brought back a tray of soup and salad and she waited until he had eaten all of it before she left. He took that time to wash up; trying to scrub away all the things he had done for Loki. When he came out, it was to find Steve standing in his doorway and Natasha seated on his bed. 

"We're going after Loki," Steve said. "And there's no one I'd rather have at my side than you two." 

"I'll fly us," Clint said, trying to not let it show how much it meant to him that Steve still trusted him. 

He gratefully changed into his own gear and grabbed his bow before joining up with Steve and Natasha in the hallway. He noticed on as they headed to the flight deck, the way crew members jumped aside or stared at him scornfully. Clint kept his face straight and pretended he couldn't see the fear in the agents' eyes as they let him board the quinjet under Steve's orders. As they headed to New York, Steve caught them up to speed. 

"Stark figures Loki's going to use Stark Tower to make his move –he'll meet us there. He needs to grab a new suit and he'll try and stall Loki for as long as he can. I'm sure Thor will meet us there too –" 

"Thor?" Clint asked. 

"Jane Foster pulled him from the rubble of the Hydra facility," Steve explained. "The blonde guy, with the red cape? I guess you would have seen him when he arrived. Well he's alive. He was just unconscious. Anyway, he's Loki's brother. And he's on our side; he wants to stop Loki before he destroys the earth." 

"How's he planning to do that?" 

"He's going to use the Tesseract to open a portal and bring an alien army –something called the Chitauri –here. He plans to become king of the earth. And we're going to stop him," Natasha said. 

"What about Banner?" 

"We lost him in the explosion," Natasha said gently. "We're not sure where he is." 

"Thor's a heavy hitter," Steve added. "We'll do fine." 

Natasha handed him a comm unit. "Thor's got one and Stark's got another." She paused, a teasing smile on her lips. "If you take one, you'll officially be a member of the Avengers." 

"I thought I already was," Clint retorted, taking the comm. 

They arrived just in time to fire at Loki but the alien was faster. The jet went down and they fled onto the streets of New York just in time to see the Chitauri come soaring out of the portal Loki had created. It was a lot of fighting, of trying to create distractions long enough to save civilians. At least until Banner drove up on his motorcycle and Stark brought the Leviathan to them. Following Cap's orders, he settled into his new perch atop a building and started coordinating each superhero. For all the complaining Natasha, Phil and Steve had done, Stark didn't seem like such a bad guy after all. Clint stayed at his perch for as long as he could before he grappled to safety, cursing as he sailed through a glass window and landed on his back. By the time he made it back down to the streets where he was attempting to scavenge a weapon of some sort, Stark had flown the missile into the portal. Clint stared, listening as Steve gave the order for Natasha to shut the portal. It was a relief when he saw the man come falling down into the Hulk's grasp. Clint started jogging to their location. 

Together they got Stark back onto his feet and headed up to arrest Loki. Once that was done, they all grudgingly accepted Stark's offer and headed to the Shawarma restaurant. Clint wasn't the only one dead on his feet and he was more grateful than he could put into words that no one asked him about his time under Loki's control. Except for the part where Stark raised his glass of coke. 

"For Phil," he said solemnly. 

And there was –there was only one person he could mean. Natasha and Steve both turned to Clint, their eyes concerned, but he just raised his glass and brought it to Stark's. Because of course the one person he'd wanted to keep secret, to keep safe had died. Phil didn't deserve to die because of Clint's mistake. And once they had toasted in his memory, Clint set his glass down. 

"How?" he asked. 

It was Natasha who told him. Thor spoke of Phil's honor and bravery, how he had tried to stop Loki but failed and Clint –Clint tuned out the rest. Because his mind was still stuck on the fact that Phil, the one person he truly loved, had died. He gave Loki everything. He gave him everything he asked for and even things he hadn't asked for and this is how he paid for that mistake. So he got to his feet and said he needed to speak with Fury. No one tried to stop him, but Natasha and Steve both got to their feet, assuring him they would go with him. So Clint let them escort him back to the Helicarrier which had landed in New York and Clint's feet carried him to Fury's office. 

"Sir?" Clint asked, looking in through the open doorway. Natasha and Steve were guarding the hallway. 

Fury was seated at his desk, his eyepatch spread out in front of him. He glanced up at the mention of his name and shook his head. "Come in Barton," he said. 

Clint shut the door behind him as he walked over to his desk. "Sir, I am…" his voice gave out on the word. He couldn't even apologize properly. 

"It wasn't your fault, Barton. Take a seat." Clint obeyed, more out of habit than a desire to sit down. "I know it wasn't your fault. And Romanov and Rogers' and anyone else with a brain in their head knows it wasn't your fault." 

"Yes sir," Clint repeated numbly. 

"But the World Security Council, in their infinite wisdom, is worried you might still pose a risk. Selvig is in our custody already and the Hydra agent who had been possessed by Loki is dead. And I've been ordered to place you in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody." 

"Yes sir," Clint mumbled, staring down at his lap. 

Fury sighed heavily. "You should know, Coulson died believing in you. And I know you had no choice in what he made you do. But I need your badge, Clint." 

Clint handed it over numbly, unable to meet Fury's gaze. "Sir I –I'm sorry. For everything." 

"Don't you apologize to me. It don't mean squat when Loki is the one who did all of this." He gestured around them. "Now, Barton. You have a choice to make." 

"Sir?" 

"I can place you in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody or I can let you go back with your teammates. None of them would let the World Security Council get their hands on you and Stark can get you access to doctors who can clear your psych evaluations and make sure Loki is out of your head. Or you can stay here while we play nice with the Council and you can spend some time with our psych department to make sure you're clean." 

Clint swallowed. "I think, I think I'd rather be here, sir." He glanced up and noticed the way Fury was shaking his head. 

"If that's how you want it Barton, that's how we'll do it." 

As Fury called in Hill, Clint spent a moment memorizing the cityscape where he could see smoke and wreckage from the battle. Part of Clint wanted to stay here, because if the World Security Council declared him guilty, then he would have to pay for his actions. But mostly, he wanted to stay here, connected to S.H.I.E.L.D. and connected to the place where Phil had last been. 


	14. Bad Blood

Natasha understood his decision and respectfully disagreed by maintaining her silence from him. Steve did not understand, but he stopped by to debate with Clint about it every other day or so. Stark obviously didn't understand and while the man never visited, Clint's S.H.I.E.L.D. warden would tell him whenever Stark had been by to argue with Fury. Which was sporadic but the fact that the man cared enough to show up with a new argument every so many days was rather touching. Thor even showed up a few times, in the days leading up to him taking Loki back to Asgard. He probably reminded Fury about the fact that Loki was the one responsible for everything that had happened, not Clint. But Clint only saw Thor once, when the doctors brought him in. They restrained Clint and took blood samples while Thor observed with pity in his eyes. His offer to help, while appreciated was completely unnecessary. Because this cell was exactly where Clint wanted to be. And his treatment by the medical staff was nothing less than what he deserved. He still didn't know how many people he had killed in the attack on the Helicarrier, but he had been informed by one of the nurses, that he had killed Dr. Taylors. 

So if the medics felt better to restrain him and do what they needed to do, Clint couldn't blame them for it even as he struggled and begged to be let free. Because the restrains and the needles took him back to Hydra, to being strapped down on a table, helpless and clueless as they did whatever they thought they needed to. And maybe it was just for show, or maybe no one really felt safe with him, but even when the psychologists and psychiatrists arrived, they left Clint in his restraints. His warden released him once the cell was empty of any medical personnel. The only thing he was grateful for was that whenever he had visitors, they didn't feel the need to restrain him for that too. The only regular visitors he received were Bruce Banner and Sitwell. Bruce didn't usually have a lot to say, but having someone at all who came by every day was a relief. 

"I remember what it was like to be isolated," Bruce had said that first day he stepped into Clint's cell. "I'll come by when I can." 

Sitwell's visits were very different from Bruce's. Sometimes he would ask about Loki, about what it had been like and Clint could never answer. He had told his psychologists and psychiatrists, but somehow telling someone else was beyond him. He could tell the doctors because they were using his answers to fix him, to make sure he wasn't going to turn on S.H.I.E.L.D. if they released him. If. Sitwell was angry and justified or not, he blamed Clint for getting Phil killed. Because although Clint had never told anyone else about what he told Loki, Sitwell seemed to know. But Phil had been his best friend. Clint couldn't blame the man his anger. Hill and Fury both stopped by, just for a few minutes or so. Hill made it quite clear that she didn't blame him as did Fury. 

"You didn't personally kill anyone," Hill had said bluntly. "You shot Steve in the chest when you knew he was wearing his tactical gear. The bullet didn't even puncture his flesh. If you were actually trying to kill he might've had to see a doctor or actually died. But you didn't kill him. The other casualties are just that –casualties. Those goons you hired made their decision to kill innocents; you didn't tell them to do that. So stop blaming yourself because no one else does." 

Fury was less wordy when he stopped by. "You think Coulson would want this for you?" He didn't say anything else before he left. 

And although he knew that if Phil were still alive, he would have been fighting tooth and nail to get Clint out of here. But the thing was Phil wasn't alive. And regardless of whether or not he wanted to leave, he had agreed to wait for the World Security Council to decide his fate. But he knew that no one wanted him blaming himself for the death count that was slowly rising. And Clint didn't know how to pay penance, how to say he was sorry and mean it and do something to change it. Last time he had joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and promised to do better, to do good. He never wanted to take an innocent life again and he hadn't. He hadn't until Loki. He asked for paper and a pen and wrote down for Fury what he had told Loki. But when the man showed up next, he held the report crumpled in his hand. 

"This means jackshit, Barton. It would be like me trying to keep Professor X out of my head when he wanted to know something. He would get his answers with or without my knowledge. So quit playing the blame game or else." 

Bruce came by next. "It's been a month since the battle," he said, when Clint asked. "The city's healing nicely. You would like it, I think." 

They chatted more that day, about the city and about Bruce's plans. Clint was surprised to learn that Bruce had every intention of sticking around for as long as he could. Thor had left several weeks ago and he had taken both the Tesseract and Loki with him. Clint wished he could have been there. But at the end of his visiting hours, Bruce left and the doctors came again. A single parade of white and he was restrained and pleading as they took his blood before they left. A few days later, his warden notified him that he had a visitor. And while it was hard to keep track of time in his windowless cell, he knew that it was too early to be Bruce and that Sitwell was out of the country on some mission or another. 

The door opened and in walked Barney Barton. Clint was speechless. Barney looked a lot better than from when Clint had last seen him. The brother he remembered was thin with wiry muscle, wearing muscle shirts to show off his arms. He had reddish-brown hair that hung limply across his forehead and Clint could remember the way he'd shake his head to the side so he could flash a mischievous smile in Clint's direction without pissing off Chisholm. Back then, he was always clean shaven because he said his peach fuzz was more embarrassing than his baby-face. He also used to keep a cigarette tucked behind his ear but looking at him now, Clint never would have guessed that it was his brother. Barney had let his hair grow out, but he had no bangs to speak of and he was wearing a button-down shirt with a tie and blue jeans. He was sporting a partial goatee, thin and patchy in places. 

"Well never thought I'd see you here, of all places," Barney said, folding his arms across his chest. "My baby brother, a war criminal," he tutted, but there was amusement in his eyes. 

"The fuck do you want?" Clint growled. 

"You know, last time I remember personally visiting anyone in jail, I think it was Dad." Barney smirked, "Must run in the family, huh?" 

"Fuck off," Clint snapped. "I'm here by choice." 

"Oh, I'm sure Dad was too. I mean, he was the one who got caught driving drunk –that was his choice." 

"You don't know shit!" Clint said, jumping to his feet. "You fuckin' sold me, you don't get to come in here and try this psycho bullshit on me. I've got three shrinks for that –I don't need it from you!" 

"Yeah, well your friends told me that you weren't listening to that expensive crap they're feeding you." 

"I don't need _your_ help," Clint growled, glaring at him. 

"You did last time, and you said the same thing then," Barney fired back. "And now look at you. You haven't shaved in, what, a month? You won't talk to your friends." He paused. "You know, I didn't even know my baby brother was an Avenger. But then I get this call, yeah? Saying he was in jail, beating himself up because some asshole mind controlled him. And they asked, hey you think you could talk some sense into him? Y'know what I told them?" Barney shook his head, smiling. "I told 'em Clint Barton don't listen to nobody when he's determined to be guilty for it." 

"I killed people!" he shouted. 

"You got them killed!" Barney yelled right back. "Their deaths ain't on you. And some people are gonna blame you, well you let them. Because you know what? You're a fuckin' hero." 

Clint was too stunned to speak. Barney didn't stop there though. 

"Without you how many people would be dead? Way I hear it; you got the team where they most needed to be. Those folks in the bank? No one might've known they were there 'cept for you. And you what? You wanna blame yourself for their deaths too? Oh wait, they're alive. You wanna talk about guilt bro? How about we talk about the fact that I fuckin' sold you to Hydra. My kid brother." Barney took a step first, dragging his hand through his hair. 

"You ruined my life," Clint hissed, and it was like the words, the very feelings with them were being dragged out from his gut. 

"I did?" Barney asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I thought this was your choice." 

"Enough with the jokes!" 

Barney dropped his hands to his sides. "Fine. Outside these four grey walls, you are a hero. You're on a team of superheroes and last time I checked, you're the only human member. Stark's got a robot; Widow and Captain America have some special juice in their veins. Doesn't look like too bad of a life to me, Clint." 

"Because I made something of myself!" Clint roared. "Without you and without your help. I was Hydra's fucking pet for _years,_ Barn. You don't have a clue what kind of things I did for them." 

"Oh I don't?" he challenged. "I ain't got no fucking clue because why? Because I never cared? God, Clint. You can be so fuckin' blind sometimes. I joined the FBI, you know that? Well you wanna know why? Because when I pulled my head out of my ass, I learned what a screw up I was. So I went lookin' for you. But Hydra's like a ghost. I started following the reports of this Ronin guy when I was a recruit. 'Side from Duquesne how many swordsmen you know bro? 'Cus I only knew one other apprentice of his." 

"I waited for you," Clint whispered, glaring at him. "Every goddamn day, I waited for you to save me." 

"Well I couldn't! I tried to find you. I swear I did but it was too late Clint. You had disappeared and I couldn't find you. By the time I had the power to investigate, to request missions; there were no signs of Ronin. I thought you were dead, I thought I was going to have to find your body. So I went out and I joined Hydra, an undercover op. I didn't see you on the news; I didn't know S.H.I.E.L.D. had grabbed you until one day Hydra's taking me out for my first mission to reclaim Ronin." 

"No," Clint said weakly, his voice cracking on the word, shaking his head. "No, it's not true." 

Barney made a noise that might have been the start of a sob. But Barney wasn't the type of guy who cried. "I tried," he said hoarsely. "You've spent a lifetime hating me, Clint, and that's okay. I fucked up. I fucked up the kind of thing where no one should ever –and I don't expect you to forgive me. But I gotta try. I gotta –because, I made this mistake. I made the choice." 

"I don't forgive you," Clint snarled. 

"I know," Barney replied, and he sounded tired, so tired. "Because you know why? No one held a gun to my head, no one mind-fucked me. No one forced me to do a damned thing to you –and everything you've ever done and regretted? Someone made you do it." 

Clint sat down on his bed. "That's not –that's not the point, Barn." 

"Then what is Clint? Because you got a family outside here that's worried about you." 

"I need… I need to know if it's my fault or not," Clint said quietly, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe I didn't kill Phil, maybe I didn't kill Dr. Taylors but I brought the guys on board who did it. If –" 

"If didn't happen. You can't deal with 'what ifs' when you're dealing with what you did do. You went out there, after someone practically mind raped you, you went out there, and you saved New York. You saved the goddamn world, Clint. You're a hero. You're not a criminal, you're not dad, and you're not the person Loki turned you into." 

Clint couldn't help the watery laugh that escaped him. "Who gave you the briefing to talk to me? Don't tell me the FBI knows everything already." 

"Some guy named Fury, if you can believe it," Barney said. "Now, what do you say we get out of here?" 

"Yeah, okay," Clint agreed quietly. 

As he followed Barney out, he was greeted by each Avenger. Natasha flashed him a warm grin and handed him a bag that probably contained his belongings; Steve clasped his arm in solidarity; Bruce gave a quiet smile; and Stark handed him a phone and just said: "The bird's broken from his cage. We'll call you if the world has a major crisis." Fury and Barney went over the paperwork and Clint realized with a start that he was being released into his brother's custody. When all the paperwork was sorted out, they walked out of the Helicarrier and onto the New York streets. And Clint was aware for one terrifying moment of clarity, that other than him and half of S.H.I.E.L.D. no one actually knew what he had done. There were posters everywhere, draped across buildings, posters of the Avengers. There were even a few pictures of him although the shots were grainy and his face was mostly a blur, they had photos of him in action. 

"What'd I say, kid?" Barney asked, slinging an arm around Clint's shoulders. "You're a hero." 

Clint shrugged his arm off him. "I'm twenty-six years old, not a kid." 

"Yeah?" Barney asked, grinning at him. "You don't say?" 

Clint rolled his eyes. "Shut up. Where are you going after here?" 

"Home." Barney paused. "I might've signed all those papers, Clint. But if you don't want to come with me, you can go do whatever you want. You don't _have_ to come with me." 

"I'm pretty familiar with the concept of free will, Barn," Clint drawled dryly. "Yeah, I'll come with you. For a day or two at least. Where you live?" 

Barney paused as he pulled out a set of keys from his pocket. "I've got a place in Indiana." He pulled out his keys slowly and Clint noticed the glint of gold on his finger. 

"Are you married?" he asked, shocked. 

"Yeah," Barney said quietly, fidgeting guiltily. "Couple of years now." 

"Wow." Clint blinked, trying to get used to this new Barney in front of him. Because maybe he was a little wrong to hold onto his hate all this time. "You didn't even invite me?" he asked, unable to think. 

"I did, actually. But I must have had the wrong address because a few weeks later it was returned to sender." 

"Guess so," Clint said softly, still stumped. 

"And Clint?" Barney turned to face him, searching his face for something. He exhaled. "I uh, I've got a son." 

The road trip could have been worse, all things considered. It was full of terse silences and awkward laughs as Clint and Barney tried to get to know one another again. Barney and his wife had one kid, their son, Cooper who was only five years old and absolutely ecstatic about the sibling who was on the way. 

After his Hydra undercover op was exposed, what with how he helped Clint escape, Barney was sent undercover into Ohio of all places where he met Laura. Barney was trying to get in good with a middle class weapons smuggler and the guy always frequented one restaurant to do all his business. And Barney started showing up more often, trying to get a connection to the smuggler. Which was how he met Laura –who was definitely not connected to said smuggler. 

"And it definitely was not love at first sight," Barney said, laughing. "I was on the job and she was waitressing." He smiled fondly and it seemed to take years if not decades from his features –a look Clint was entirely unaccustomed to seeing his brother wear. He wasn't sure if he could ever remember a time Barney appeared so happy. "She kept turning me down, but I dunno, I just had to keep flirting and she finally said yes. We started going out and things just kind of went along well." 

"Wow that's –I'm happy for you," Clint said, a little awkward. He meant it though. 

"You haven't been alone all these years have you?" Barney asked, glancing at him. 

"No," Clint said shortly because this was really not a conversation he wanted to be having. For starters, Phil was dead. And secondly, Clint wasn't sure he knew his brother well enough to know how he would handle it. "And I don't want to talk about it." 

"Shit, sorry." 

Because Phil had been Clint's world and now he was gone. And Phil died without knowing that Clint loved him, because he'd been too scared to say it. The people Clint loved the most always left and he was scared that if he told Phil, he would find out Phil felt differently. So Phil died without knowing that anyone he'd left behind loved him. Clint pressed the heel of his palm against the bridge of his nose, as if it would stifle the tears. As if preventing the tears would make it hurt any less. Nothing would. Because Phil –Phil was his best friend, his lover –Phil was his rock, his world and now –and now Phil was. He just was. He'd only been dating Phil for a short while, not even a year, and no one would consider them a serious, committed couple. He was entitled to nothing of Phil's. Clint had only had his memories and he knew that over time they would leave him and he would have nothing at all. And if all his regrets in the world were someone else's fault, well, this one was all of Clint's own making. And it felt worse than anything he'd ever done before. 

Barney didn't ask though. He just rambled on about his wife and some of their early dates before he just turned the radio on and left the classic rock station roll over them. It was maybe the most relaxed Clint had felt since everything went to shit. He couldn't find the energy to be excited at the prospect of meeting his sister-in-law or his nephew and he knew he should try harder. But he didn't want to. Clint just wanted to curl up and ignore the world for a little bit longer. And irrational though it was he was grateful that none of his friends would see him like this. Because as much as Natasha was his sister and Steve his brother, he wanted to be alone, someplace where they would never see him like this. Weak and exhausted and scared. Barney had to put up with him though, in a way that neither Steve nor Natasha did –and not because Barney was his blood brother, no, it was because Barney wanted his forgiveness. It was because Barney owed Clint everything and then some. And Natasha and Steve were grieving in their own way and they could still go out on missions, they could play nice with other operatives and they would be okay. And Clint really wasn't sure how he was ever going to be okay again. 

The drive in silence didn't seem to bother Barney but about halfway to Indiana, he switched and let Clint drive. It was a relief to have a task to take his mind off of everything else. He didn't want to know how much Barney knew or suspected. And he definitely didn't want to talk about it. The shrinks they'd been sending in for him to talk to had wanted to talk about everything except Phil. They never asked about him. They just asked about Loki and how he felt while under the alien's compulsion opposed to how he felt currently. And then they would go away and inevitably return the day after to ask all the same questions again. He wasn't sure if he would have talked about Clint even if they had asked. But all too soon they had reached Indiana and Barney took over driving the rest of the way to his town. 

"You know I quit the FBI?" Barney asked suddenly. 

"No." 

"When I found out Laura was pregnant," he said. "I didn't want my kid growing up without a dad. Like we did, you know?" Barney sighed softly. "So I quit." 

"Could've fooled me," Clint said, glancing at his brother. "You dress like an off-duty cop." 

Barney barked a laugh. "Shit, really?" 

"Like no one ever gives you the side eye when you're all dressed up like this?" 

"Yeah well I had to go bail your sorry ass out of jail didn't I?" 

Clint snorted. "Keep telling yourself that." 

"I swear!" 

"Are you an off-duty cop now? Living in a small town like this, the prestigious ex-FBI agent, I'm sure they took you on eagerly." 

Barney made a face. "No, I'm not a cop. I don't wanna know what my neighbors get up to, thank you." 

"What are you then?" 

"It's nothing special," he said evasively. 

"Right," Clint drawled disbelievingly. 

Barney sighed as he drove out of the city limits. "I'm a security officer." There was a long pause, during which Clint was considering whether or not to laugh at him. "At the mall." 

Clint didn't even try to stop his laugh. "You're a mall cop?!" 

"Mall cops don't get shot!" Barney argued, but he was laughing too. 

"You live in a town with a population of what, eight hundred tops? You could probably work in a bank and not have to worry about getting shot." 

"Probably," Barney agreed as he turned down a country road. "But it makes Laura feel better and I don't mind it so much. Most culprits are just stupid kids." 

"Yeah," Clint said quietly in agreement. He could remember the handful of times he and Barney had been forced to steal from a store or two in their time. He could also remember the other circus kids that liked to steal because they thought it was fun. Sometimes they got caught. And the circus never waited on anyone and those kids got left behind. 

Barney pulled up in front of a quaint farmhouse. It was two stories with a white wraparound porch. Off to the side of the building there was a barn and Clint could see the hay fields out beyond it. As he opened his door and got out, he could hear cattle bellowing in the distance. The porch door creaked open and a strawberry-haired child raced down the four steps headed directly to Barney. 

"Daddy!" the child proclaimed, throwing his arms around Barney's leg. "You're back!" 

Clint grabbed his bag from the back seat, noticing for the first time the woman standing on the deck. She had shoulder length brown hair and soft, gentle eyes. Clint could see why Barney had left the FBI behind for her. She was wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and blue jeans. She looked at home here. Clint glanced at Barney and wondered how much of this farmhouse was his and how much of it was hers. 

"Hey Cooper?" Barney was saying as he approached Clint, holding his son on his hip. And it was terrifying how at ease Barney appeared to be, but it was also reassuring. "This here is your Uncle Clint. You wanna say hi?" 

Cooper peered up at him, his face scrunched up in consideration and Clint was suddenly struck by how out-of-place he was here. This was Barney's home. Barney had made a life for himself here –a life for him and his family. His pregnant wife, his son. This wasn't where Clint belonged. 

"Hi," Cooper said, suddenly shy. 

"Hi," Clint said, smiling a little sadly. "It's nice to meet you." 

Cooper wiggled and Barney carefully set him down. The little kid walked over to Clint and he found himself crouching down so he was closer to eye level for the guy. But Cooper didn't say anything at all; he simply hugged Clint for a moment before stepping back and meeting his gaze straight on. 

"Do you like dinosaurs?" Cooper demanded. 

And, for a moment Clint was struck speechless. If his hair were a few shades darker, more reddish, and if he had less freckles and sharper eyes, he could have been Barney's twin. But there were features he definitely had inherited from his mother; her soft gray eyes, the lightness in his hair and the pouty face. 

"I think dinosaurs are the coolest," Clint answered after a moment. 

Cooper grinned, obviously delighted. "What dinosaur is your favorite?" 

Clint had to think about it for a moment. "The pterodactyl," he said. And if anyone ever asked, it wasn't because it was the first dinosaur he was able to think of. Granted, it was the only one he could remember, but he remembered it because it was his favorite. 

Cooper pouted. "How can you like them better than the stegosaurus?" 

"I always thought flying would be cool." 

Cooper gaped at him and somehow Clint found that he had managed to become Cooper's favorite person without even meaning to. Wherever he went, Cooper was right there beside him. As much as Clint was terrified to screw up with Cooper, the kid was a welcome distraction from the unpleasant thoughts in the back of his mind. After he had set his bag down and let Cooper amuse himself by trying to prove he could carry the bag, Clint asked about Cooper's interests. That question seemed to open the floodgates to enthusiasm the likes of which Clint knew nothing about as the kid grabbed his hand and led him to his room for a rousing show-and-tell session followed by a workshop on dinosaurs –the stegosaurus was the one with the spiked tail, Clint learned. Laura came upstairs to get Cooper ready for bed because he had school the next day and then the waterworks started. 

"Uncle Clint will be here tomorrow," Laura said patiently. "You can play dinosaurs with him then." 

"Really?" Cooper sniffled, staring at Clint with big, red-rimmed eyes. 

Clint nodded from his position by the door which he'd been trying to sneak out of. 

And, like a switch, the tears were over. "Okay. G'night Mama. G'night Uncle Clint." 

"Good night baby," Laura said softly, kissing his forehead. "Sleep well." 

"'Night," Clint parroted, slipping out from the room. 

"You're a natural you know," Barney said quietly from where he was leaning against the hallway wall. "With him. I've never seen him take to anybody quite as quick as he did with you." 

Clint shrugged, deeply uncomfortable. It was a relief when Laura stepped out of the room and Barney headed inside. Unlike her son, Laura had not warmed to Clint quite as easily. She was polite and kind, but distant. Clint wondered if she knew what Barney had done to him. He would never tell her or ask her –that was Barney's decision. Clint hadn't come here to get petty revenge or to ruin Barney's family, not when he could see how good it was for his brother. In some ways, it was like he didn't know this Barney at all except for all the ways he did. Barney still hated pickles, he laughed at stupid jokes and he was an accomplished liar –a skill he used for telling jokes or for convincing Cooper of harmless things (that tapioca pudding was made of fish eggs, that running with his shoelaces undone would invite shoe gnomes into the house who would steal all of their shoes –and apparently, Barney and Laura had together hidden every pair of shoes they and their son owned until he started tying his laces). Barney was nothing like what he remembered and Clint didn't know how to feel about that. 

He mumbled his goodbyes to his brother and sister-in-law before escaping into the attic where they had set up a guest bedroom. He wondered what Phil would have thought, if he could have gotten to know this side of Barney. He sat down on the bed heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face. He wondered about a lot of things involving Phil. He wondered if Phil knew Clint loved him –had, in fact, been in love with him for a very long time. Clint couldn't pinpoint the moment himself, when he had fallen in love with him, but he knew it was more than two years ago. He'd started falling the moment Phil answered his phone call and got him to safety all those many years ago. But he hadn't known then. Not until Phil had been shot did he understand his feelings. That he loved Phil. And Phil died not knowing. 

Clint woke up with the rest of the household. Mostly because he hadn't slept the previous night. He went to the nearest bathroom and showered thoroughly before he shaved and combed his hair. He needed something to do. He joined Laura downstairs in time for breakfast, as apparently Barney was walking Cooper to school. Clint couldn't help but wonder if either of their parents had ever done that for Barney –because it was Barney who used to walk Clint to school. Maybe it wasn't such a surprise that parenthood was a good fit for Barney when he'd spent their childhood raising Clint. 

The few days he planned on staying with Barney turned into weeks. Weeks Clint spent working away busily to help Laura on the farm while Cooper was at school and Barney busy at work. He threw himself wholeheartedly into the process and ignored the grief that was trying to drown him by keeping busy. Clint didn't talk about him. Clint didn't think about him. Outside of his dreams and nightmares, Clint resolutely kept to himself. Except for the hours between after school and dinnertime, when he would walk Cooper home from school and keep him entertained while Laura rested. At seven months, she was quite heavily pregnant and she appreciated the time she could have to lay down and rest. And sometimes, Clint would think about Phil then, when he was watching Cooper laugh and play. And he would wonder, if Phil had ever thought about having children. If Phil had planned out a future for them, known where he wanted their relationship to be in another six months or a year. He wondered if Phil even let himself dream about a possible future where they were in a serious relationship. He didn't even know he was crying until Cooper went running from the room, calling for his parents. And it wasn't until Laura gently hugged him that he realized he needed it. 

He almost told her about Phil before he remembered that she was a civilian and he couldn't talk about his life at S.H.I.E.L.D. in any detail. "I lost someone very important to me," he explained quietly, hating the way his voice shook. 

"That's okay," she said gently, smiling kindly at him. "Barney said you might be upset. Do you think you could explain to Cooper that you're not upset because of him, though?" 

"Yeah, of course," he said, taking a deep breath. "I can do that." 

"Thank you, Clint," she said, handing him a glass of water. "Cooper and I will make dinner tonight. He's such a good helper." 

It wasn't until after he had explained to Cooper that he was crying because he missed his friend, and he and Cooper hugged it out, and after Barney arrived that he realized how lucky Barney was to end up with a wife like Laura. Because Cooper was a nightmare in the kitchen but somehow she kept him inside and entertained while he and Barney went outside to talk. And the last thing he wanted to talk to his estranged brother about was his dead lover but Laura had arranged it without Clint even realizing it. She was a lot like Natasha in that department –he hoped the two of them never met. There would be no hope for any man on the planet. 

"Rough day?" Barney asked, like he couldn't see that Clint's eyes were still red and his hands were still shaking. 

"You remember Phil, right?" Clint asked, with no preamble. "Agent Coulson, the guy who interrogated you when he thought you were with Hydra?" 

"Yeah, him, him I remember," Barney said, nodding his head. 

"I was in love with him." And Clint steeled himself for whatever Barney's reaction might be –horror, confusion, and disgust –and was surprised to find that Barney was nodding along. Like it made sense. 

"Tell me you made a move on that guy, because he was so head over his heels for you I could see it from a mile away." 

"I did," Clint said softly. "We'd been dating for six months before…" He couldn't bring himself to say the words. 

"Before he died?" Barney asked, leaning against the fence. 

"Yeah," Clint said quietly. 

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching over to grip his shoulder reassuringly. "I assume that had something to do with your self-imposed jailing?" 

"He died on the Helicarrier," Clint murmured, staring out across the hay field. "I guess I thought if I stayed there, I was closer to him. Like there was a piece of still there, or something." He shrugged, swallowing back his tears and emotions. "Stupid, right?" 

"No," Barney said adamantly. "No, not that stupid." Clint glanced at him. Barney winced. "It's not like you tried to hurt yourself or anyone else," he said. "You just stopped doing everything, when you were there. You let people do whatever they wanted to. And that's not the Clint Barton I know." 

"So you came to rescue me? From myself?" 

"I did." 

"And look at how that turned out," Clint snorted self-deprecatingly. 

"It turned out better than I could have hoped for," Barney said sharply. "My son got to know his uncle and he'll remember you even if you never come here again. And I got a chance to make amends to you –and no, I don't want to know if –that's not what this is about. I brought you out of that city to give you what peace I could." 

"You didn't have to." 

"I wanted to, okay? I wanted my son to know his uncle. I wanted my wife to meet you. And if they had gone the rest of their lives without meeting you, that would've been okay with me too. But leaving you in that cell to grieve alone, to blame yourself? That wasn't okay with me." 

Clint smiled weakly. "You're starting to sound an awful lot like a pain in the ass older brother." 

"Good," Barney said, poking him in the arm. "Someone around here has to." 

Clint smirked. "I think Cooper's ready and willing to take that title as his own." 

"Yeah," Barney said with a laugh. "He is excited about that." 

"And how is it that you aren't even the least bit curious about who I date? I mean I thought you would have had questions at the very least." 

Barney scuffed his foot against the ground. "Your boss told me if I was some homophobe or biphobe or panphobe that he'd make sure no one ever saw me again. Or something to that effect." 

"I don't really use a label," Clint said vaguely, trying to picture Fury threatening Barney over discussing his sexuality. It didn't seem to matter how he altered the image, he just couldn't help imagining Fury's black eyepatch rainbow colored. 

"More than I need to know, Clint!" Barney said. "Unless you really want to talk about this." 

"No, fuck no!" 

"Good. 'Cus there's one last thing I need to tell you then. Or, give you really." 

"What?" Clint asked warily, shifting to watch Barney at his serious tone. 

"Your boss gave it to me. He said that until you talked about your guy, Coulson, that I couldn't give it to you. And that if I gave it to you early, he'd know and he would make what happened to New York look pretty compared to what he'd do to me." Barney dug around in his pocket for a minute before pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Don't shoot the messenger. I've been carrying this thing around for days just in case you decided you wanted to talk about him." 

Clint took the piece of paper from him curiously. It was odd for Fury to be so involved in his life. 

"I don't know what it says. I haven't looked. It's your business and all." 

After unfolding the paper an infuriating eight times, right in the middle of the sheet of paper were two words that changed everything. Project T.A.H.I.T.I. Clint nearly dropped the card in his surprise. Because of course Fury wouldn't lose his one good eye. Of course he needed to get Clint off the Helicarrier, because he was the distraction the World Security Council needed. Because Fury used Clint as the smoke screen cover he needed to move Phil. He didn't really know much about the details of Project T.A.H.I.T.I. but he did know one thing. It was the emergency back-up plan in case an Avenger died. And if Clint had been the smokescreen Fury needed to protect Phil from the World Security Council, then that meant… 

He had to mourn Phil. Because the Phil who walked out from Project T.A.H.I.T.I. might not be the same Phil who died under Loki's spear. He might not even have survived the Project. It was experimental. And later, when Clint had time to think about it, he would wonder how he knew about the project and come to the realization that he had never heard it spoken of before or written down anywhere. Which meant that Fury must have done something. Maybe with those shrinks who never spoke of Phil when Fury knew fully well that Clint was grieving. But ultimately, Clint didn't care how the knowledge came to be –he cared that Phil might be alive. 

"Barney," Clint said, ripping the paper up into tiny pieces so small no one could ever rearrange it to its original form. "Thank you for letting me stay, but I really need to be going now. There's someone I have to talk to." 

"You sure?" Clint nodded. "Alright. I'll drive you to the airport tomorrow morning." 

"No, I'll call a cab. Tonight." 

"What's going on Clint?" 

"Confidential," Clint said absently, smiling to himself. "But I'll tell you, when I can. I promise it's not world ending. I just have to go." 

"Alright. Just… call if you need anything. Or even if you don't." 

"Yeah, maybe," Clint said, looking at his brother. "I'm glad you've got a family, Barney," he said. "It's a good fit for you. They're lucky to have you." 

Barney blinked in surprise, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You really think so?" 

Clint smiled at him. "Neither of us turned into dad, Barn. I know they're lucky to have you. Aside from a couple of years, I used to have someone like that in my life." Which was a hell of an understatement, but it was true. It was why Barney's betrayal had stung so badly. Barney was the only family he had left. But the Barney who had made that choice over a decade ago was not the same man who was living with that choice now. 

The man standing in front of him was better than the teenager who had betrayed Clint. And while Clint could spend the rest of his life hating Barney –and he would have every right to –he didn't want to. Maybe in another universe, there was a version where Barney wasn't the good guy. Where he didn't get his act together, where he did nothing to apologize, but the Barney he knew now had spent most of his life trying to make amends for that mistake. And while Clint would never be okay with the fact that Barney had sold him, he also couldn't stand to leave the betrayal hovering in the air between them. Because when they were kids, Barney used to protect him. Barney walked him to school, Barney taught him how to tie his shoelaces and he was the one who remembered Clint liked pickles and he used to put them on his sandwich when their mother forgot. Clint wasn't the same kid from back then, and being around Barney was hard because he was so aware of how he had changed. But he knew it was harder on Barney, because Barney was the one who had to live with what if. What if he hadn't sold Clint? Where would Clint have ended up then –where would Barney end up? They were two sides of the same coin. Neither of them could forget what had happened or take it back. 

But they could move on. Clint could deny Barney his forgiveness and still move on, but he would be leaving Barney behind. And he wasn't vindictive enough to do it. 

"You still have him," Barney said, turning to admire his hay field. "If you happen to be free around the middle of July or so, you're welcome to stop by. We could use a good farmhand." 

"Didn't you hear?" Clint asked. "I'm a superhero now. I can't be seen helping someone hay. No villain would quake in fear of mighty Hawkeye, harvester of hay." 

"I bet that's what they all say," Barney said flatly, but he was smiling. "And then next thing I know, I'll see you on the news helping an old lady walk across the street or getting someone's cat out of a tree." 

"Well that's just good publicity," Clint reasoned. "Looks good. You on the other hand you're an able-bodied man. You don't need my help. I wouldn't want to steal your job from you. I'd probably be better at it than you anyways." 

Barney snorted. "Oh yeah? Well you come back here 'round July and you can prove it then." 

"You're on," Clint said. 

And they shook hands on it. And if Clint saw the tears in his eyes, he didn't comment on them. Because what had happened between them was in the past. It wasn't so much forgiveness as it was a willingness to move on. Barney was a different person now, so was Clint. And he was willing to move on, to give them both a little peace. It wasn't until Clint was packing his things up, that he found he had needed to move on. Because holding onto his hate and his rage made it impossible to remember the good things about his brother. Clint released a breath he wasn't even aware of holding onto. He had other things to be focusing on now. Like the fact that Phil –Phil might be alive. 


	15. Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first three italicized parts are dreams Phil is having. The next two segments are the memories affected by the project.

_Phil walked down the stairs, into the kitchen where he could hear Clint singing softly. He liked to do it early in the morning, when he thought Phil wasn't listening. Which was a little absurd, considering how fantastic his voice. Phil paused on the steps, smiling as he listened to Clint sing. It had taken him years to learn that part of the reason he enjoyed cooking so much was because he was completely at ease while doing it. And very rarely was Clint aware of just how relaxed he was until someone intruded on the moment. Phil walked down the stairs, mindful of the ones prone to creaking, as he peered into the kitchen. Clint was wearing a pair of black boxers and his robe was wide open as he danced across the floor, flipping pancakes elegantly. Maybe if his life had been different, he could have ended up a chef. But here, he was an assassin and a superhero and the man Phil loved more than anything._

_"You know, you could say good morning instead of just staring," Clint commented as he set the pan back on the burner._

_"But then I'd miss the lovely show," Phil teased, leering at Clint playfully._

_Clint gasped in mock offense and tied his robe around his chest. "You ruin your image like that," he said, grinning._

_"Only for you, Clint," Phil said, leaning against the counter._

_"Good," he said, letting his robe fall open once again. "I'd hate to have to fight a rival for your affection. Because I would win, obviously, and then you'd be upset."_

_Phil chuckled. "Good thing there are no rivals for my affections, then."_

_Clint grinned at him. "Breakfast won't be long."_

_"And I can see it's pancakes, your favorite."_

_"No, no, it's the bacon that's my favorite," Clint corrected, adjusting one of the pans and moving the contents around. "And since you're never up this early, I can give up on all my dreams of my big, strong Alpha husband making me breakfast in bed. And I'll just make my favorite when I want to," he flashed a smile in Phil's direction._

_"Well," Phil said lightly, "that's only because your big, strong Alpha husband would burn everything to a crisp. As I proved on our first anniversary."_

_"The Anniversary Fire," Clint sighed happily. "It was a great day."_

_Phil laughed. "You only say that because I spent the rest of the day in bed, with you, making up for it! I couldn't go into work the next day."_

"And it was glorious," Clint agreed, serving up breakfast. "Best anniversary I ever had." 

_"Only anniversary you've ever had," Phil replied fondly. "I promise this year's will be better."_

_"Nothing can beat the mighty Phil Coulson, stuck at home in bed, because I played you out in bed," Clint replied, winking. "Nothing can top that."_

Phil sucked in a breath of air –coughing and choking it back out but he breathed. He swallowed down each gulp of oxygen like it might be his last. Around him, the doctors and nurses burst into movement. He saw at least three different faces and resisted the urge to try and hit them only when he saw the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem emblazoned on their white lab coats. What –was he a science experiment gone wrong? 

"Agent Barton?" he gasped out. It felt like he hadn't been breathing for ages. Each lungful of air was a relief but it was also too much. 

"Who?" asked the nurse nearest him, her nose wiggling in confusion and Phil almost laughed. 

He was definitely on some heavy drugs then. "Barton," he repeated tiredly, scanning the faces of the medical team surrounding him. No one seemed to recognize the name. 

And the tiny thread of thought he had been holding onto slipped from his fingers and he fell back into a world of nothingness. 

_"I don't think anyone would ever believe me," Phil murmured, pressing a kiss onto the back of Clint's shoulder, "that the stubborn, willful and disrespectful Clint Barton, was such a traditionalist, if I told them."_

_Clint was spread out in front of him, naked and pliant on their bed. "Mmm good thing, then that you haven't told anyone. I wouldn't want to put my reputation at risk." His breath hitched as Phil slid home._

_"You'll be the death of me one day," Phil groaned. "But it'll be a very good death."_

_"'Nough morbidity, sir," Clint grunted in reply, moving his hips back against Phil's. "Make me feel good. Make me yours."_

Sometimes there were bright flashes of light and sometimes there was pain but those occurrences were few and far between. He hoped Clint was faring better. He wondered why, when he had awoken, Clint hadn't been there. Because the only reason Clint wouldn't be there was if – no. No, Natasha and Steve would have gotten him back. Consciousness was infuriatingly fleeting. He woke up in starts and bursts, always gasping for air like a drowning man. He couldn't understand why. His thoughts were like a broken record, always scratching at the same name. And in between those moments of lucidity, there were the dreams. 

_Phil raced down the dungeon corridors, gun drawn as he searched for the sound of the screams. He slammed the door open and found himself in a hospital of faceless people. But there was someone who needed him and it was almost like he could hear the labored gasps of the man he was searching for as he raced down the halls of the Intensive Care Unit. He stopped at the last door, poised to take one more step and move on but he couldn't. He turned to look at the bed that was to his right, at the way the curtains billowed open. At the body lying on the bed. It took every effort he could use to not fall to his feet and weep._

_"C-Clint," he stuttered, stumbling into the room._

_There were thick white bandages across his lover's eyes. At the sound of his name, Clint did not respond. But Phil wasn't sure if he ever would again. Because his sight had been stolen from him –there was nothing left for Clint to give in service to his country. And he served because Phil had asked it of him and now he lay here, broken and bleeding. Refusing to see anyone, even Phil._

_"Agent Barton," he tried again, practically falling into the chair at the side of his bed. Where were Agents Romanov and Rogers? Clint needed friends now more than ever._

_"You got me into this mess," Agent Barton replied, his voice a low growl. "You did this to me, Agent Coulson." He started to sit up and the monitors around him blared a warning._

_"Agent Barton, no, sit back down," Phil pleaded._

_"I will not listen to you," Clint snarled. "You made me lose my hearing, you have taken my sight from me, my bows, my arrows, my love for everything in this world that was not you and you have left me a broken mess! If you have any sense at all you'll leave me alone!"_

_"Cl-"_

_"Let me die in peace." And Clint ripped what few devices were connected to him away and there was blood and there was pain –and Clint lay dying on the floor, at Phil's feet._

"Barton," he begged for what felt like the hundredth time in as many days. 

"Agent Barton is fine," said a very familiar voice. Phil tried to look, to find the face so he could remember who the speaker was but the name slipped away from him. "He's recovering at his brother's farm, Coulson. Calm down." 

"Barton," he repeated, staring up at the face. Whoever's face it was, he couldn't remember. It wasn't Barton, he was certain of that. Barton was someone special. He would remember Barton. 

"Phil," said the voice again and a calloused hand wrapped around him. "Phil, I'm Nick Fury." 

Phil stared at him blankly and if he had known better, he would have thought the man seemed impossibly sad. "Barton?" 

"I told you!" chittered one of the doctors nervously. Phil couldn't see him. "He just keeps saying the same thing." 

"Clint Barton is perfectly safe Phil," Nick said patiently, obviously ignoring the doctor. "Natasha Romanov recalibrated him and broke him free of Loki's spell. He's safe." 

And Phil smiled but he didn't know why. He couldn't… It felt like he was staring at a puzzle piece where he had all the corners and frame completed but none of the other pieces would fit. They were broken. He slipped back away into the darkness. 

_"You'll go crazy with nothing but paper and white walls to keep you company, so you'll start hearing my voice," Barton teased._

_"Oh I will?" Phil replied, signing his name on the paper._

_"You wouldn't want to be stuck listening to my voice forever without at least getting to see my handsome face," he replied easily._

_"Get off my couch, Agent Barton," Phil said warmly. "You have paperwork to do. And I have a lot more of it than you."_

_"Your couch?" Barton replied, sitting up. "I happen to know you bought this old thing just for me."_

_"Now you're the one deluding yourself," Phil said easily, glancing at him._

_Barton appeared more nervous than usual. "Well, if I am deluding myself, then I might as well ask the really important questions, right?"_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"Let's go get dinner. Together," Barton burst out._

_Phil blinked at him. "Dinner?" he repeated._

_"Yeah. You know, sit down at a table, and eat food…"_

_"No. I have to get these files done for Fury."_

_Barton's whole expression shuttered, closed off, as he got to his feet. "Course you do, sir. Just thought you might like to take a break."_

_"I'm not a fragile old man," Phil retorted testily._

_"I didn't mean to say you were. Just…" Barton sighed, frustrated. "Never mind. Goodnight sir. Enjoy the paperwork." And he walked out._

And there was nothing. Until there was nothing but agony and pain and he was sure he had ripped something with all his screaming. And the awareness that had come with the pain disappeared with it. 

_In the months since he had turned down Agent Barton's offer, Hawkeye had spent more time in the field than out of it. Despite his increasingly risky behavior he had managed to avoid any serious injuries that would prevent him from accepting the first mission offered to him. And on the rare occurrences when Agent Barton was in headquarters at the same time as Phil, Barton resolutely pretended Phil didn't exist. Not that Phil could blame him. No matter how handsome and flirtatious Barton was, he wasn't the type of man to commit to any one individual. Despite how Barton tried to hide it, he was still engaged with Agent Romanov and he had a casual arrangement with Agent Morse. And Phil? Phil would not allow himself to be another notch on Agent Barton's bedpost._

And then, he woke up. His body ached with inactivity and he could feel the tightness of stitches in his chest. He looked down at his body, laid out on a hospital bed with tubes everywhere. The blankets were tucked around him; a pale and calm baby blue that some therapist somewhere figured helped patients recover faster. He hated that color. His fingers twitched at the thick cotton material, trying to get a grip on the blanket to pull it off him. There was something –something. He didn't know what it was, or what it meant, but something was very wrong. Least of all was the fact that Fury was sitting on the chair next to him, head bobbing with each breath he took, and sound asleep. Fury didn't show up in medical unless it was serious. Phil twitched his fingers determined to get the blanket off –he was sweltering and it felt like the blanket was suffocating him. But his motion seemed to trigger one of the many devices attached to him as a shrill alarm blared and Fury practically jumped to his feet as a team of medics descended upon Phil. 

They asked him a lot of questions. Many of them seemed irrelevant but Phil was as accustomed as anyone to the strange interrogation that doctors put agents through so he answered them all. What was his favorite color, his parents' birthdays, his first pet, the name of his best friend, the year, the current president, what food did he hate the most and what was the significance of form two-eighty-a. (For the record, the answers were blue, April second and August twenty-eighth, mac and cheese, Dixon the cat and the significance of the form was that agents who were away on medical leave had to fill it out). Very odd questions. But when their interrogation was over, they left him to get rest. But he felt rested. He felt like he had been sleeping for a week or something as there was so much he felt ready to do. He sat up and wasn't surprised when Fury took a seat next to him. 

"They could have just asked me the names of my best friends and their birthdays," Phil said with a sigh. 

"They wanted to be thorough," Fury said, taking a drink from a Styrofoam cup. "Worried you might have some kind of memory loss. You were unconscious for a while." 

"How long?" 

"Couple of weeks." 

Phil winced. "Well, I guess considering that, my memory is in pretty good shape." 

"Do you remember how you got here?" 

"I was injured," Phil said slowly. "I was stabbed." He raised his hand, settling it over the wrappings. "From behind by Loki. An alien god from a planet called Asgard?" he glanced at Fury. Most of that actually seemed more like a nightmare than like something that had happened. 

Fury nodded solemnly. 

"I take it we stopped him?" 

"Thor took him back last week to Asgard after he and his army nearly wiped out New York. The Avengers stopped him." 

"Did Thor join?" Phil asked, thinking about the large blonde man. He seemed like a good sort of guy. 

"He did. He also promised to do what he can in the future to keep our planet safe." 

Phil nodded. "Good. We were wondering who could fill in that final spot. How long until I can be out of here and in the field?" he asked idly. 

"It's gonna take time. You have a lot of rehabilitation to go through," Fury said. "They're worried about what kind of effect high stress situations might have on your heart and whether or not when the wound heals if it will limit your mobility. You're going to be immobile in a hospital for at least another month Coulson." 

"Oh. Well, bring me some paperwork then. I feel like I've been sleeping forever." 

A strange look passed over Fury's face but it was gone before he had a chance to figure out what it meant. "I'll grab some for you," he said, getting to his feet. "And Phil?" Fury turned away. "It's good to have you back." And then he was gone. 

At first Phil hadn't thought being immobile in a hospital bed would be that bad, but adding bad hospital food to the mix was almost too much. Fury managed to visit him every day and that in itself was concerning. The man had a lot of responsibilities but whenever Phil brought it up, Fury just said that everything was taken care of. So Phil didn't complain. And he didn't ask about where Maria or Jasper were as he stayed in bed, recovering. He read up on reports, he filled out his hazy recollection of what happened on board the Helicarrier that day and he kept himself occupied. He didn't ask after the Avengers. It was clear that they were fine. That his injury had done for them what he wanted it to –it had brought them together. Into a team. Of all the reports he read, the one he found he was always drawn back to, was the report on the Battle of New York made by many agents. It talked about how Agent Barton had been controlled, how he had destroyed the Helicarrier and inadvertently killed eighty-three people. The report talked about how he left with Agents Romanov and Rogers and arrived at New York in time to be shot down by Loki. How the three of them joined forces with Iron Man, Thor and Banner and how Clint got Agent Rogers' to a bank where nearly thirty civilians were trapped by the Chitauri. He read about how after the battle, Agent Barton walked into the Helicarrier and surrendered himself to the Word Security Council's mercy. 

A mercy which never really came because only a week ago, his brother took custody of the Omega and the two left New York. Stark started donating and helping rebuild the city while Agent Rogers' started showing up at volunteer organizations all over the city to help put the place back together. Thor returned home with his brother and the Tesseract while Natasha had apparently taken a long undercover mission in Turkey and left the country. Something about it didn't sit right with him though and he couldn't figure out what it was. It felt like he was missing something. And he just didn't know what. And Phil started to wonder. If he felt like he was missing something, then what was it that he was missing? Fury was the only visitor he received, the doctors and nurses treating him were ones he had never met in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical before. Between Barton and Romanov and his own injuries, he knew most of the medical personnel. But these doctors and nurses were entirely unfamiliar to him. 

"I haven't seen Jasper or Maria around," Phil commented, watching Fury for his reaction. 

"Maria's busy entertaining the World Security Council and I've got Jasper doing clean up on the city," Fury said easily. "If I had you, you would be able to do both but since I don't I've had to make do." 

"Then get me out of here," Phil said. "Let me do something other than paperwork." 

"Paperwork too boring for you?" Fury joked. 

_"You'll go crazy with nothing but papers and white walls to keep you company so you'll start hearing my voice."_

Phil gave a start at the memory jumping to the forefront of his mind. Of the way Clint's voice seemed to reverberate in his skull. And one of those pesky puzzle pieces he'd been trying to sort out slid neatly into place. 

_"So you should go back into the field instead of cooping up here. You wouldn't want to be stuck listening to my voice forever without at least getting to see my handsome face."_

Phil smiled despite himself. It served him right, all those years he'd spent working with Barton and the man was right. He was going slowly insane, stuck listening to Clint's voice on a loop inside his head. Well, there were probably worse things he could be stuck listening to than Clint flirting with him. 

"Yes," Phil murmured. "Yes, I think it is." He glanced up at Fury. "Sir, why hasn't anyone else been by to see me?" 

"You were nearly killed by an alien god," Fury said, in what was probably meant to be a reassuring manner but fell remarkably short. "We want to make sure you're safe, make sure his spear didn't do to you what it did to Agent Barton." 

"If you were so worried about that," Phil said slowly, "wouldn't you have kept Agent Barton here? Instead of letting him run off with his brother?" 

"Phil," Fury said, steel sliding into his voice. "You keep thinking about this and it's just gonna be trouble for you. Let it go." 

"And if that was the case, and you didn't leave Agent Barton in your custody, it must mean –" 

"Agent Coulson," Fury said sharply as he got to his feet. "I won't ask again." 

"What are you going to do if I do?" Phil fired back. "Mind control me?" 

Fury levelled him a heavy look before he walked out of the room. And nothing Fury said could stop Phil from picking at the holes in his story. He needed to understand what was going on. Something didn't make sense. It wasn't just that something was missing or simply gone. Something just didn't add up. And he refused to heed Fury's warning. So he asked his nurses and his doctors about his condition, about when he had been admitted and when he had regained consciousness and what that meant for his recovery. Through those questions, he realized that he was missing a lot of time. At least a week or two of which he had no idea what had happened to him. And no matter how he asked his doctors and nurses about what his condition was during that time, none of them would answer. Phil decided to sleep on it before he made any decisions. 

_It was the sound of laughter that drew Phil out from his study. The house was unfamiliar to him but the laughter… the laughter was familiar and a welcome sound. So Phil followed the sound, walking outside as he tried to find the sound. And lying on his back in the grass was a sun-kissed Clint Barton with two children lying across his stomach. One was a girl with bright blonde hair and the other was an older boy, with brown hair and they were giggling and clearly attempting to break Clint's concentration as he ignored them. Like the way a mother wolf pretended to be disinterested in her children, only to turn and nip at them –Clint waited until the children were starting to look between each other nervously and he shifted, rolling out from them as he tickled the both of them. They shrieked and tried to run but it was only the girl who was successful at escaping his grasp; she spotted Phil and raced towards him, hiding behind his legs while Clint tickled her brother._

_"Quit, quit!" cried the boy, squirming. "I give up!"_

_Clint pulled back, grinning widely. "Your sister is certainly a quick one," he said, glancing towards Phil. He smiled at him, a slow, lazy grin that was three quarters seduction and one quarter smile. "Hiding behind her daddy like that."_

_It felt like someone had punched Phil in his solar plexus as he gaped. The girl had no qualms, peeking out from behind Phil's legs to stick her tongue out in Clint's direction._

_"It's 'cus she's so little," said the little boy, tripping over his own words._

_"I am not!" she shouted, sticking her thumb in her mouth as she stomped her tiny foot down. "I'm no littler than-than Dad," she said muffledly, gesturing at Clint with her available hand._

_"I was small for my age," Clint said to the boy faux-seriously. "Is that where she gets it from?"_

_The little boy nodded gravely._

_"Well you'll go bald early!" shouted the girl, pointing with her still wet thumb at her brother._

_"I will not!" shouted the boy as he got to his feet._

_And Phil smiled softly at his children, too pleased to even be offended by his daughter's comment. "Children," he said, adopting a tired voice as he shot Clint a disapproving glance. Clint shrugged incorrigibly._

_Their children raced over to him and as Clint rose to his feet slowly, Phil realized that he had found a family after all._

It was the dream Phil remembered when he woke in the morning. The feelings he had. Feelings for Clint. It made no sense. Because a dream like that? That was the sort of thing Phil had never experienced. And his feelings for Clint had felt so real, so powerful, like love. A love he could not remember having. If he had loved Clint, then all those months ago when Clint asked him out for dinner, Phil would have said yes. He would have agreed. And in the back of his mind, as he tried to recall the detail of his latest dreams, he remembered the dreams he had earlier. He thought they were just a side-effect of the drugs. A bad combination of loneliness and near-death experiences. But no, he could remember each dream. Where he held Clint so close, where he had lost Clint because of his foolish pride. 

So Phil did the one thing he was good at. He broke out. He needed answers and there was only one person who could tell him the truth. 

Clint 

"Agent Barton, I told you, we don't know where he went," Fury said tightly. "We're looking for him." 

Apparently, Clint had arrived three hours too late. "Why'd he escape? If he thought he was safe here, he wouldn't have done it." 

"I know, Barton. Believe me, I know." He sighed heavily, leaning back in his seat. "There's something you have to know before I let you start searching for him, though." 

"What?" Clint demanded exasperatedly. "What could possibly –?" 

"He doesn't remember you, exactly." 

And of all the things Clint had been prepared to hear, that was not one of them. "What?" he asked, hating the way his voice trembled. "How?" 

Fury drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. "When he first woke up, he was stuck in a loop. That's what the doctors called it. He was reliving the moment he died, forever. He wasn't really here, not all of him," he said, tapping his head. "When he could speak, when he wasn't gasping his final breath, he would ask about you. I told him you were fine, I told him everything I could think of. But he was stuck." 

"What did you do." Clint swallowed, his hands curling into fists. 

"He was better off dead than stuck like that, Agent Barton," Fury said roughly, staring at the glass of water in front of him. Or maybe it was vodka. It was that kind of a day. "None of the medical professionals could stand to see him dying like that. And his heart would flatline, Barton. It's not just a figure of speak. So I made the order. Rewrite his memories." 

"That's a violation of his privacy!" Clint shouted. 

"Would you rather he was dead?" Fury growled back, glaring at him. "Would you? Because those were the options, Barton. I get that he meant a lot to you –but he was my friend long before he was yours. It wasn't an easy decision to make and maybe he'll hate me for the rest of his life but I'd rather he had that, than that he didn't. So if you have any more comments like that to make, there's the door." 

Clint turned away. "No," he said quietly. "I don't." 

"You were part of the loop, in his mind, I think. I wasn't there to dictate what changes they made or didn't make. But he doesn't know he was ever in a relationship with you. And Clint? I'm sorry. But if he knows, if he learns, it could shock him back into the state. And we could lose him forever." 

It felt like the very world around him was giving out, but no, it was just his knees. "You give me this hope," he said brokenly, waving his hand towards Fury as though the note was still there. "You give me all this hope and then you rip it away." 

"He can still be your friend, Clint. And he'll still be here, alive. And there is nothing I can do for you to make up for this. But I thought –I left that note with your brother, when I thought he would come back in one piece. I'm sorry for what it costs you and what it has cost him, but I'm not sorry I did it." 

Clint nodded numbly. He could understand that. "So if I see him, just, pretend?" 

Fury nodded. And Clint pushed himself back to his feet and left the room. Having Phil back alive was a great thing. Never being able to tell Phil that he loved him, tell Phil what he meant to him, was not. Never being able to kiss or touch him intimately again was a nightmare. It was better to have some of Phil than none of him. So Clint sighed and went to join the search efforts. There was no video surveillance of his escape and no one knew where he might have gone. Clint spent several hours hunting through the whole building before deciding there was no way Phil would have just hidden himself away until he saw an ally. Maybe he didn't know who to trust? 

Clint left the building and set foot on the streets of New York for the first time since he had battled against the Chitauri and Loki. The repairs were coming along nicely but there was still evidence of the fighting –scorch marks on the side of buildings, broken glass and buildings closed for repairs. But Clint hailed a cab and went to Phil's apartment first. He should have known better –Fury was obviously trying to keep Phil's death a secret. The place had been cleaned out and Clint hoped that whoever did it hadn't just thrown Phil's belongings away. Next he checked Phil's favorite places; an out of the way pizzeria where the owners hadn't seen Phil in weeks and were worried about him, the classic auto repair shop that was still watching over Phil's precious corvette and the Italian place where he and Phil had their first date. Empty. And the owners and the wait staff had not seen Phil in months and they were all worried about his missing friend. It was late by the time the cab driver navigated through traffic to bring Clint back home, to his own apartment, which was miraculously still standing. 

After he read the note from Fury he had been too keyed up to sleep on the plane ride over. And before that he had been too depressed to be sleeping very well at Barney's place and those lost hours were catching up to him. He climbed the eight flights of stairs to his room, cursing the dysfunctional elevator under his breath before unlocking his door and entering. He flicked the light on as he toed his shoes off, and became aware of a familiar set of blue eyes on him. 

Clint whirled around, one foot socked and the other still in his shoe as he stared at Phil. The other man was reclining on Clint's couch, wearing a white sweatshirt and sweatpants, looking entirely at home. In Clint's apartment. Where this Phil was not meant to remember. Clint shut the door behind him, locking it as he stared at his –boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? He didn't know anymore. 

"I found your spare key," Phil said casually, holding it up. "Hiding it under a welcome mat on your fire escape; not very safe, for a super-hero or a secret agent." 

"Yeah well, Natasha likes to break in sometimes. Thought I'd make it easier for her." The welcome mat was a gag gift for her as well. His –his boyfriend had known about it considering he'd helped pick it out. 

"Your apartment is really nice," Phil said, glancing around. 

"Thanks," Clint said slowly, taking his jacket off. Of course Phil liked it –Phil had helped Clint get furniture, give the place a sense of style. 

"You're not going to ask me what I'm doing here?" 

"They called me in to help find you," Clint said evasively. "So I figure you're here to hide out?" Phil nodded slowly. "Well I'm glad you didn't bleed out," Clint said, hating the way his voice suddenly shook. He'd been talking to Phil for the last two minutes and it was now that his brain chose to remind him his lover was alive? 

"Not my first injury," Phil said, smiling briefly. 

"Wh-why'd you choose to come here?" Clint asked, turning away from Phil to hang his jacket up. The fact that it took him three tries meant nothing. His hands were shaking. He was just glad that his dead boyfriend wasn't so dead. That was all. 

"Well my apartment had been cleaned out and I didn't know where else to go. But I remembered your address." Phil paused. "Which is odd, because I've never been here before?" There was only the slightest lift in his voice that made his statement a question. 

"Yeah," Clint agreed distractedly. "Real odd." He finally placed his coat on the coat hanger. It was a habit from Laura, no doubt, considering Cooper liked to throw his clothes around and as Clint was expected to appear like a mature and grown adult he had to model appropriate behaviors. Such as hanging his clothes up. 

"Yet Agent Barton, you didn't seem all that surprised to see me." 

"Well P –Coulson, that's because it's you," Clint said vaguely. "I never know what to expect from you. You're the guy with a plan, who can incapacitate an enemy with a stack of papers." 

"Depends on the enemy," Phil deadpanned. 

And Clint –Clint almost turned around. But he couldn't. Because the man behind him? That man was not the same man he'd been dating for six months. And if he gave the game away, he might lose him forever. Clint swallowed tightly. He really could have used some more time to prepare for this eventuality. Except apparently it was this immediacy. 

"And you weren't surprised to know how I found the spare key," Phil said. "Let alone ask me how I got inside. Because in my current condition I wouldn't have been able to climb the fire escape." 

"How'd you get in then?" Clint parroted back, staring at his leather jacket blankly. He was fucking everything up already. He knew it. 

"I found a key in my locker. It hadn't been cleaned out. My Captain America trading cards were missing though. But I found your key inside one of my jackets, where I keep my own house keys." 

"Weird," Clint said numbly, letting his hands fall back to his sides. 

"And following a hunch of mine, I thought I would try my luck and see if the key worked on your door. It did." 

"Yeah," Clint said slowly. "Weird. Maybe Nat gave you her key." 

"Then why would you leave her a spare key under the welcoming mat on your fire escape?" Phil asked sharply, his voice cutting through the thick silence. 

Clint winced and slowly turned around to face his –his friend. "I can't explain it," he said. "But I-I have to ask you to leave." 

Somehow, it hurt the most to see the way Phil didn't even blink. Like he wasn't surprised, like he wasn't even hurt by the revelation. 

"Expecting company?" he asked wryly. "Don't worry it doesn't bother me, I knew you'd move on quick." Phil groaned as he pushed himself upright. 

"What?" Clint stared at him. 

"Is it Agent Romanov or Agent Morse this time? Or maybe it's Agent Hale? Since you play for both sides, apparently." 

And he wanted to explain. But… he couldn't stand the thought of losing Phil again. "Steve, actually," Clint said quietly. "We're gonna watch the game tonight." 

Phil seemed taken aback. "I wasn't aware you and Agent Rogers were so close." 

Clint stiffened. Whoever had –whoever had changed those memories had done –they had done more than invade Phil's privacy. 

"He's my friend, Agent Coulson," Clint said roughly. "He's going to come in, sit down, drink a beer and we'll yell at the television for a bit." Actually he wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Steve drink beer before… "And then, Steve will go back to his own home and I will stay here." _And mourn my dead boyfriend._ Or Clint would have if Steve was actually coming over. But he hadn't made plans with anyone. 

"Oh," Phil seemed stumped. "I –I'm sorry. I know I don't have any right to…" He blushed and got to his feet. "I'll go then." 

"No, Phil, you don't – you don't have to go." 

Phil frowned. "Isn't Agent Rogers coming over?" 

"You don't have to leave just because he'll be here. I know you must have left S.H.I.E.L.D. medical for some reason. I won't just… kick you back out." 

Phil leaned back slowly. "I left because I don't understand what they've done to me. And I thought you might have some answers for me but you still seem… upset." 

"Upset?" 

"After I… turned down your offer of a date." 

Clint swallowed back the whimper that crawled to his lips. So Phil didn't remember any of it. At all. Clint was the only one who could remember the times they'd shared. "Not so upset to kick you out," he replied weakly. 

"You're a good man, Agent Barton," Phil murmured. 

"I'll help you however I can," Clint said softly, sinking down onto his armchair. 

"That's good of you. Because my problem is that I don't remember falling in love with you or being remotely interested. But I find that I am. In love with you." 

Clint turned so fast to stare at him that he nearly pulled a muscle. Of all the ways to find out that Phil had been in love with him… well this wasn't one he could have foreseen. And judging by the way Phil was watching him, it wasn't just a confession. He was watching for Clint's reaction. And god, the secret was up. Because Clint couldn't pretend the confession meant nothing and he wouldn't be able to lie it away either. But he –he had to try, didn't he? If Phil got stuck in the loop again, then he was lost to them all. 

"That's an unusual problem," Clint said, when he could speak again. It was difficult to find the words when all he wanted to do was sink to his knees and take Phil's hands in his and say "Me too." 

"I have to agree with you. And the more I think, the more pieces don't quite fit," Phil said calmly. "I remember other things. I remember kneeling over your body, desperate to believe you would be okay, and I feel nothing. If I was so desperate to believe you would be okay, wouldn't I have felt panicked? Concerned? Scared? But I don't remember those feelings. I remember nothing. And so, Agent Barton, I came to find you. In hope that you could answer these questions for me since I don't have the answers." 

"Hey Phil? Did you ever just try not thinking about it?" Clint asked gruffly. "That maybe –maybe there's a reason you shouldn't go digging?" 

Phil blinked. "I would have thought that if anyone would understand what it's like to have your mind played with _against your will,_ that you would be the one who could understand," Phil snapped, getting to his feet. "I see that I was wrong." 

Clint flinched back from him and from the truth of his words. Lie and maybe lose Phil forever? Or tell the truth and maybe lose Phil forever? If he told the truth, Phil might understand. If he told the truth, at least Phil would know he wasn't going around sleeping with everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. In the end, it was his body that lost to his conflicted emotions first. 

"A-Agent Barton?" Phil asked, clearly concerned. "Are you… alright?" 

And there was the hand, reassuring and steady reaching out to touch Clint's shoulder. Clint wiped at his tears ineffectively as more fell down his face. It didn't matter. His heart –his heart wasn't meant to go through this. 

"You want the truth? Maybe ask your boss," he said brokenly. 

"He wouldn't tell me," Phil shot back, clearly frustrated even as he kneeled down beside Clint. 

"I know it's –I can't decide what's in your best interest for you," Clint said weakly, his voice wavering. "God, Phil, Phil," and he wrapped his arms around his partner and pulled him into a hug. But the Phil in front of him simply stiffened. And Clint wondered how awful it was for him, to have all the feelings and none of the memoires and he wondered if telling Phil the truth would even fix their problems. "I can't lose you again," he said roughly, letting go of the agent in his arms. 

"Again?" Phil asked searchingly. 

"You died. Fury used a –an emergency plan to bring you back to life. But you were stuck? Reliving the moment you died, okay? So they… they rewrote your memories. To make sure you wouldn't get stuck again. And when you were stuck, you –you kept flatlining. So they… they wanted to keep you alive. And to do that Fury gave them permission to change your memories." 

"But not my feelings?" Phil asked, frowning. 

"I guess those don't change so easy," Clint cried. He swiped a hand across his eyes. "I've spent a month hating myself because I couldn't even cry and now I've started I can't stop." He inhaled, hating the way his breath caught and hitched, like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. "I guess they took our relationship away." 

"We were together?" Phil asked and there was no hiding the horror in his voice. "Why?" 

Clint hiccoughed a breath. "Somethin' only you coulda answered, Phil. Sorry if I- if I'm not good enough." 

"I'm sorry, Clint, I'm sorry I didn't –I didn't mean to –" 

"Put me through losing my partner again? And again?" Clint demanded, turning away. "Not your fault. Not my fault. I would –if you could leave, that would be great. I think – I need to be alone." 

"Okay," Phil said quietly, getting to his feet with a quiet groan. "And –Clint, I'm… I'm sorry too." 

"None of this is your fault," Clint said vehemently. "I don't blame you. This whole thing must be so confusing to you and I can't even help," he sighed heavily. His desire to have space was already fading away; he was desperate to keep Phil close, reluctant to let the other man leave and terrified that if he did, he wouldn't see him again. 

"It is confusing, and you've done more for me than anyone else has so far." Phil walked over to Clint's chair and Clint nearly winced when he realized Phil had probably overdone it today. He'd managed to escape from S.H.I.E.L.D. and make it all the way to Clint's apartment without alerting anyone. "Would you –visit me, after?" Phil bit out a sigh. "Sorry I…" 

"No, no. Yeah, of course I'll visit you Phil." Clint paused, watching as Phil hobbled towards the door. He didn't like leaving things like this. "You know, I –I don't know how they managed to convince you I was sleeping with Natasha and Bobbi. And Steve?" 

If Natasha were interested, she would definitely have been his type. But the time for that had long since passed –she was like a sister now. Bobbi was fantastic, of course, but they weren't suited for each other. And no matter how much he liked Steve, he never wanted to see the other man naked. For one, it could probably give him a complex considering Steve was in peak physical condition even for the most fit of men and secondly, Steve was like a brother. 

Phil colored. "I was dead for a month –or two? –to you so really, it was a free pass. And I think anyone who had the chance would sleep with Captain Rogers, Natasha and Bobbi if they had the chance." 

"I didn't sleep with them," Clint said. "I've slept with Bobbi maybe once or twice? And Natasha's not into that. I honestly don't know about Steve." He'd never seen Steve give a passing glance to any man or woman and he certainly hadn't heard the man express any interest in either gender. 

"I… may have been irrationally jealous," Phil said, settling his hand on the doorknob. "I wasn't lying earlier. I am still in love with you. But I don't –" he cut himself off, turning away in frustration. "I don't remember why." 

And after just learning that his memories had been played with, twisted, it was probably hard to rely on his feelings. From Phil's perspective, he had to be wondering whether or not the doctors had done anything to affect his emotions. If Clint had woken from Loki's control and found himself suddenly in love with Maria Hill, he knew that he would never have acted on those feelings because he would never know if they belonged to him or if they were something Loki had left behind. 

"You know…" Clint got to his feet, hesitantly approaching Phil. "I didn't get to say it last time and I –Phil, I love you." 

Phil stepped away from the door, staring at Clint almost worriedly. "Why? I'm thirty-five years old, a paper-pushing government agent with –" 

Clint grinned despite himself. "And I'm a master assassin with more scars and baggage than most people. And you've stuck by me for every step I've taken. You've supported me." Clint shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to Phil and kissing him. He didn't know if he could, anymore. What were they anymore? "And whatever choice you make, I'm going to support you." 

"Do you think… would you be willing to tell me about us?" Phil asked. 

"Yeah, Phil, course I would. C'mon, sit down." Clint helped him over to the couch. "I can't tell you much for what my boyfriend's thoughts and feelings were, but I can tell you mine, okay?" 

Phil nodded, relaxing back against the couch. It was habit more than anything that had Clint pulling the blanket off the arm rest and spreading it over Phil's lap. They used to cuddle on the couch and the blanket was mostly for decoration but in the winter it got chilly and Clint had never gotten around to putting it away. Something Phil used to nag him about whenever he stopped by and saw it still out; so Clint deliberately left it there, sparing his most flirtatious smiles for those moments. 

"Before I do though… You should know Fury is the one who put this order in effect. To keep it secret. He doesn't want to lose you again." 

"I'm only going to keep digging until I find the answers, Clint. And if Fury put the order in effect he did it because he was scared that I would start digging sooner if I suspected anyone knew anything. It's probably why my doctors and nurses were clueless. But he couldn't have predicted I would come here, and neither would I. So tell me. Because I want to know –I need to understand." 

So Clint sat down and started going over the highlights of their relationship and the events that led up to him asking Phil out. He had to stop halfway through and grab a glass of water –one for him and another for Phil before he picked up the tale with their first date. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you see this fic ending?


	16. Origin of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret that this chapter is so much shorter than all my others, but I ran out of what else to say. I think... I think I've said everything that needs to be said. I hope you like it.

It took time, really. Phil couldn't avoid S.H.I.E.L.D. forever and so at the end of the week they both returned to see Fury who didn't even seem surprised. He didn't lecture either of them despite the fact that Phil clearly knew exactly what had been taken from him. Fury didn't apologize and Clint couldn't help but grudgingly admire the man on his stance in the face of Phil's rage. Clint wasn't sure if he would have made the same choices that Fury had, and he was honestly grateful that that decision had been out of his hands. Maybe Phil would never forgive Fury, but at least they had Phil. He and Phil had spent the week going over everything that had happened in the last five years and they had called Steve in to offer his side of events. And in between sharing memories, Clint could see longing in Phil's expression. A longing for what had been taken away from him. 

Clint had yet to be cleared for field duty and so he spent his time following Phil around to physical therapy and then to his office. He drew the line at following Phil home like a sad puppy, but just barely. Instead, he went to Natasha's seeking comfort. Phil was still struggling to get his memories sorted out and he was itching to go back into the field unlike Clint. And he never asked for space, which Clint was grateful about because he wasn't sure if he could have kept his word to do so. He needed to see Phil, just to know that he was okay. And when he was with Phil it was easier to pretend that the glares and muttered words sent his way were insignificant. He still felt guilty, he had a hard time falling asleep and he had to see several different shrinks, but it was easier if he could see Phil. Know that one of the most important people in his life was still alive. Natasha and Steve both came with him when he went to Dr. Taylors' memoriam. He left a sizeable donation to her family and a bouquet of white tulips behind. 

And Phil got better. He took a new team under his wing –Skye, Grant, Melinda, Leo and Jemma and headed out on missions. Clint let him have his space despite how much it hurt. He watched the news anxiously, hated how Phil threw himself into danger without any back-up but he couldn't do anything to stop him. And when Phil came back to the office, Clint made sure to meet him there. Clint walked in without knocking, like he always did. No one ever expected Clint to knock. And promptly walked in on Phil in the middle of conversation with Agent May. 

Agent May flashed a smirk at Phil as though saying 'see? I told you so' before she turned to Clint. "Agent Barton, he's all yours," she said before leaving the room. She shut the door behind her. 

Phil flushed and looked away almost guiltily. "Good to see you, again." He seemed to hesitate, torn between how he should refer to Clint. It was a new barrier between them. 

"You suck at keeping a low profile," Clint replied easily, pretending there was nothing wrong. He was nothing if not an excellent actor. "Just imagine if Stark saw that broadcast today." 

"I thought he was busy pursuing Doctor Banner," Phil retorted, his eyes widening in alarm. 

"Oh he is. But you know him, it'd be just your luck that he was on a plane back to the States and saw it. You'd never get a moment's peace. Besides, half of the Avengers already know you're alive." 

Steve and Natasha both had the requisite authority levels now, but Natasha had learned when Clint told her. And as such, that was how they found themselves promoted. It just burned that Agent Ward had known before Clint technically on-the-books knew. 

"I hadn't planned for it like that," Phil said. 

"I didn't think that was your plan," Clint said agreeably. "No injuries though?" 

"None. Just a pit stop to send a report to Fury." 

The Bus and the team as well as practically all the space and freedom Phil required had done a lot to soothe the tension between the two of them. But like Clint, Fury didn't really know where he and Phil stood. Mostly because Phil hadn't decided yet. Not that Clint could or would blame him. It wasn't easy to have your head messed with. So Clint chatted a little longer with Phil but Phil made no requests and Clint ran out of time to stay and talk. So he left and returned to his apartment. Usually he went back to the Avengers Tower, but sometimes he just wanted to bask in a place where he could remember that he and Phil _had_ been together. Because the more time Phil took, the more it felt like they weren't going to get back together. That it had been a betrayal more than Phil could accept. It wasn't the first time that Clint had set foot in his apartment since Phil left, since Phil had died, but Clint only got one foot in the doorway before he turned and left. It was too much. 

He went back to the Tower –it was mostly empty these days. Natasha and Steve had decided to stick with S.H.I.E.L.D. and been attached to a new Strike team. Clint didn't envy them their choices, but sometimes he got restless. It was worse when Stark wasn't around. So he spent his time practicing archery and every so often he would fly out to Indiana to meet his brother and his family. It was nice to be welcomed back somewhere. His time at the Tower was even worse when Banner and Stark were in the same room and considering things between them currently, the awkwardness wasn't going to end anytime soon. So he packed up his things and he brought his spare bow, the one S.H.I.E.L.D. had made for him and let Barney put him through his paces. He needed something to keep him busy. But in the middle of his visit, he got a phone call he'd never expected to get. It was Phil. He had given Phil his number nearly six months ago. 

"Clint," Phil said, and he sounded out of breath and giddy. "Clint, Clint I remember. I remember you –I, god, I remember _us."_

"What?" Clint asked, and it was like all the breath left from his body. 

"I was –I was captured and they used this machine. Clint, it doesn't matter. I'm fine. I remember you. Where are you?" 

"I'm with –I'm with Barney," Clint answered numbly. 

"Do you want me to drive down or do you want to come home? I've got a few weeks off." 

"I'll come up," Clint said, smiling brightly. "I'll be there as soon as I can, okay?" 

"I can't wait," Phil answered softly. "We have a lot to talk about. To catch up on." 

Clint glanced around, grateful to realize that Barney had headed back inside to leave Clint some privacy. "Yeah, after I get you in bed again," he teased. 

"That's the first thing you want?" Phil asked, amused. 

"Hell yes. Well that's actually behind kissing. Kissing is my first plan of action." 

"I'm still in the office," Phil pointed out, but he didn't sound upset. 

"Killjoy," Clint replied warmly. 

"I've missed you, Clint." 

Clint packed up his gear in record time. "I've missed you so much," he agreed. It was hard to keep the emotion from his voice as he threw everything into his bag. "I don't want to hang up," he admitted, later, once he had packed everything back up. It was like he was worried that if the phone call ended and he got back to New York, he would find that Phil had forgotten him again. 

"Neither do I," Phil murmured. "We can stay online until you have to hang up," he offered. 

Clint said farewell to Barney and Laura and he gave Cooper a hug, keeping Phil on his phone throughout the interactions. He caught a taxi and headed to the airport, listening to Phil talk about mission reports and statistics and whatever came to his mind. It wasn't until he had hung up and was seated on his flight that the hope and giddiness he first heard in Phil's voice seemed to reach him. He didn't settle down until he landed in New York and found Phil waiting for him. And just as he promised, the first thing he did was throw his arms around Phil and kiss him. It wasn't until afterwards that he remembered his fears, but by then, Phil was already kissing him back. Some people stared, someone whistled at them but Clint didn't care about any of that. He cared about Phil. _Phil_ who was right in front of him, in love and remembering who they were. 

By the time they made it back to Clint's apartment, they were too occupied in undressing each other to think about talking. And for the rest of the night, they stayed in Clint's bed. It wasn't like the last time they made love, because that's what it had been about last time was sharing and basking in their connection. Clint needed to see all of Phil, feel all of him, know that his partner still loved and desired him. And Phil seemed to feel the same way, because as rushed and desperate as they were, they held onto each other like they never had before. Like they were scared of losing each other again, because the time where they thought they had forever had faded away. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Phil said breathlessly, kissing the back of Clint's hand. "I promise. I have two weeks off." 

Clint traced the scar on Phil's chest sadly. "You're all healed up," he said, a little awed. 

"They wouldn't have let me back into the field otherwise," Phil pointed out, amused. 

Clint huffed. "You broke into my apartment last time I actually saw you, I was worried you would bleed out. It's a surprise to see how recovered you are." 

Phil kissed him sweetly. And it made a part of Clint relax that he hadn't known he'd needed to relax. It was just the anxiety, the worry, the fear that if he let go Phil would disappear again. Sure he'd been there these past few months, he'd been alive, but he hadn't been _Clint's._

"You would like my team," Phil said at last, curling his fingers over Clint's knuckles. 

"Well I already know Agent May." 

"Skye, you would get along with her." Phil smiled tenderly. "When she found out about you –the Archer as they'd taken to calling you –I was worried she would figure it out. But May convinced them otherwise, said it was an Olympic archer." 

Clint snickered. "You always did like the athletic type, I guess." 

Phil rolled his eyes. "It was Fitz who told them and they nearly dropped me off at your brother's farm to see you." 

"Before you remembered me, right?" Phil nodded. "It was hard seeing you like that," Clint admitted, clasping Phil's hand and kissing along his fingers. 

"It's hard to remember how I was feeling then. I just didn't want to be Fury's puppet or the doctors' lab experiment and I think I took it out unfairly on you." 

"I was alright." And for the first time in six months, Clint was sure that he meant it. "I was. I did okay." 

"You moved out of the Avengers Tower and it looks like you haven't been here in weeks." 

"You try living with Banner and Stark," Clint grumbled. "They're like… they're like rabbits. Except instead of making babies, they just make science. All the time. They don't have an off button and sometimes Tony pushes too far and the Hulk roars back. It's a little anxiety inducing, you can't fault me for that." 

"Are you and your brother doing alright then?" 

"Yeah. I think we're okay." 

"I'm glad you have someone in your life," Phil said sincerely. 

"I'm glad I have you," Clint admitted, gazing at Phil. How was it scarier to say those three little words when he'd already said them before? When Phil had already confirmed he felt the same way? But somehow, it was infinitely more terrifying. 

"I love you," Phil said quietly, smiling tenderly. "I've loved you since you called me sir the first time, since you called me for help. I didn't even realize it until you practically moved in to cook for me when I was shot. And I am sorry I didn't say it before now." 

"I love you too," Clint said hurriedly. "And I-I'm sorry _I_ didn't say it." 

Phil smiled softly. "You asked me out first. You've always been braver than me. I wanted to be the one to say it first this time." 

"Hey, I told you –" 

_"While_ I can remember why I love you," Phil added. "It means more this way." 

Clint couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face. "Yeah, it does," he agreed, leaning in to kiss Phil. 

Ten Years Later 

Unlike the rest of their friends who had all but jumped into their marriages, Clint and Phil got engaged a year after Phil's memories had returned. A year after they got Phil's behaviors under control and managed. The worst thing about that time was that Clint hadn't even known what Phil was going through, he was so busy being an Avenger and training up to be an Avenger that he only heard from Phil once a week. And while it was torture, they were both busy with their own lives, Clint thought Phil would have told him if there were any new developments, but he didn't. Because he didn't want to worry Clint. And even though his team had pestered him, Phil lied and insisted that Clint knew. But between Agents May and Skye, the two of them knew that if Clint had known, he would have been there at Phil's side. So they called him and Clint came and saw for himself the meltdown Phil was having. And maybe Phil had been right to keep that secret from Clint, because the guilt from what he had done under Loki's time came back with a vengeance afterwards. But thanks to Skye, Phil got better. And he stopped keeping quite so many secrets. Of course as the Director, there was only so much he could share. 

Their engagement had been simple. They went out on a date and afterwards, when they were at home, Phil got down on one knee. "Clint Barton, you are the love of my life. If you'll accept this ring, accept me, I would be honored to be your husband one day. I promise to share the remainder of my life with you, to share my secrets and my fears if it won't cause global destruction," Phil had vowed. 

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Clint had asked, amused and overwhelmed. "I –Yeah, Phil, of course I accept." 

But now as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, fidgeting with his tie as he waited until he could stand with Phil and say "I do" in front of all their friends. 

"Nat, did I get my tie right?" Clint asked, peering out the door to look at her. 

"You look fine," she replied, glancing up briefly. "You've dressed up fancier for Stark's parties before." 

"They weren't as important as this," Clint muttered, ducking back into the bathroom to stare at his reflection. 

"You two have practically been married for the last ten years," Natasha pointed out. 

"And if he can't accept that when you're nervous you can't tie a tie to save your life, then screw 'em," Bucky drawled, sprawling out across the couch. 

Clint rolled his eyes. "Your eloquence always makes me feel better." 

"It's why I'm here right? Back up to your best man." 

"Best woman," Natasha corrected. 

"So long as I'm not the one giving the first speech." 

"Isn't yours only like ten seconds long?" Natasha teased. 

"All the Internet resources said short and sweet, I'm just helping move the party on. Barton, get over here. I can't stand to watch you fluster anymore." 

Clint sighed and stomped over, barely resisting wringing his hands together. He wasn't nervous –well, he was –what if he messed up his vows? –but it was mostly excitement. His and Phil's marriage had been a long time coming. Bucky sat up and gave his tie a light tug, glancing at Natasha to not approvingly. She huffed and swatted his hands away, adjusting Clint's tie minutely. 

"It's perfect now," she announced, pulling back. "Don't even think about touching it. You look good, Clint." 

Clint nodded nervously. "Yeah." 

"You can't be nervous on your wedding day," Bucky protested. 

"Like you were any better on yours?" Clint retorted. 

"We were practically in the middle of a war," Bucky said primly. "I had plenty of reason to be nervous." 

"Boys," Natasha said, looking between them, "put the measuring tapes away." Bucky flashed her a lazy grin but he dropped the conversation. "Now Clint. You're going to be fine. Phil's been with you forever. Nothing will go wrong today. You've been reading your vows for the last six months, you're not about to forget them. You and Phil love each other and we're all here to support you. Now, stop pacing and breathe for a minute or two because if I have to give you another pep talk, I'm going to call Steve in here." 

Clint made a face. "I don't want his pep talk." Steve gave amazing pep talks but Clint didn't want his husband's best man trying to calm his nerves down. That's what he had Natasha and Bucky for. 

"Now just imagine how much hell Phil is going through. He's got Steve and Tony in the same room to cheer him up," Bucky pointed out. 

"Yeah, I'm sure he needs a lot of reassurance." But he smiled anyways, thinking about it. Steve would be there giving long speeches about how the wedding was going to be fine only to be undermined by Tony's sarcasm and wit. "Okay," Clint said, taking a deep breath. "Okay. I'm good." 

Natasha nodded and got to her feet smoothly, the lilac purple of her dress fit her like a glove. Absolutely no one had been surprised when Clint and his daughter decided on purple as one of the wedding colors. The men were wearing tuxes and had purple pocket squares except for Phil who no doubt had some ridiculous flower tucked in place of the pocket square. Natasha returned only to announce that it was time and all of Clint's nerves came back in full force as she led them out of the guest house and down the stone path towards the outdoor area. There were two rows of four picnic tables for their family and friends and a straight aisle down between the tables. At the end there was a white arbor where their government official was waiting to officiate the wedding. Natasha smiled at him and they waited as everyone headed down the aisle, no one happier than his daughter as she gleefully threw flower petals everywhere she could reach before taking a seat next to Jane. Phil walked down next, stopping next to Clint as they shared a smile and linked arms and walked down the aisle together. 

They stopped under the arbor, their hands clasped as the wedding began. The ring bearer toddled out pleased as punch with the rings, handing them to Phil with a bright smile before Aiden returned to his seat next to Fury. Most of the ceremony was a blur. Phil spoke sincerely of their time together and the future he wished for them to share and Clint wholeheartedly returned the sentiment, certain that he was botching his rehearsed lines but he didn't care. He was honest and genuine in his feelings for Phil and everyone knew it now. He blushed when he had finished speaking and Phil gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and then their officiator was telling them the magic six words and they were kissing. It was sweet and brief –there were children present –and anyways they didn't tend to get so passionate and carried away these days considering they had two children and eleven years together under their belts. This was just making it all official. 

When the ceremony was over, not even an hour had passed by, so Clint and Phil took their places at the head of the table, looking out over their family and friends. To their right was a small patio block that served as a stage with a podium and a microphone unnecessarily attached courtesy of Tony. 

"Finally," Natasha drawled, as she got to her feet, delicately banging her spoon against the wine glass. "Finally these two idiots have got their act together and done something about it. Congratulations to ending the longest-lasting engagement any of us have ever seen –to Clint and Phil. To your good health and fortunes!" 

Clint laughed and clapped along with the rest of their guests. Phil was shaking his head, but he was smiling. Natasha had made it no secret over the years to call them out on how many years more they could have been married if they'd done this sooner. At some point, she just looked up all the benefit information for being married and would recite it like Shakespearean quotations to them. The kids loved it, even if they didn't really understand what it meant. Natasha of course wasted no time in converting their innocent daughter to her ploys as she explained what a wedding would mean for little Katie. Katie who was seven years old and loved any excuse to dress up, who became determined to make certain her parents were married even if she had to beg them every day for six months before they caved. (At that point, there hadn't been anything preventing them from being married). 

After the cheers, it was Steve who walked up to the podium next. "To Phil and Clint, if you must lie, lie with each other. If you must cheat, may you cheat death –" 

"Again!" called Tony, grinning from ear to ear. 

Clint squeezed Phil's hand. He didn't like to think about those six months very often. But sometimes, he would remember them and be so grateful that he had been allowed to keep Phil. He wasn't sure what he would have done if he never got Phil back in his life after that day. He wasn't sure where he would have ended up. 

Steve continued like he hadn't even heard the other man interrupt. "If you must steal, steal your lover's heart. If you must drink, drink deeply the joy of your new life together. To a long and happy marriage." With a sincere smile, Steve took his seat. 

Clint got up next, reluctantly releasing Phil's hand, as he went up to the podium. Spread out before him were his family and friends: Natasha, his best woman; Phil, his husband; Steve, Phil's best man; Bucky, Bruce, Tony, Fury and Thor rounding out the remaining members of their wedding party. Beyond them were his children, Laura and Barney's kids, a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and their significant others. There weren't more than forty people present, which was a comfort as Clint hated speaking in front of crowds like this. 

"Phil, I've loved you for most of my life. You've helped me become a better man, a wiser father and a kinder soldier. We've spent nearly eleven years of our life together and I'm so grateful for each of them, but I can't wait to start our married life." He smiled in Natasha's direction. "We've been engaged for nine years and it was a great run. Here's to a better one, here's to being beside you for the rest of my life. Love you Phil." 

Clint went to sit down at his seat, grinning when Phil gave his hand a squeeze on his way up to the podium. "The worst day of my life was when I lost myself and I lost Clint along the way. And today is the best day of my life, because it's the day I get to say that he's mine for the rest of our lives. And ever after, in case death tries to stop us again." Phil smiled at Clint and Clint felt his heart pound harder. "Long will I cherish you, my husband, my joy, the father of our children –and love you, I always shall." 

Phil crossed the stage, kissing Clint tenderly amid the cheers and wolf whistles of their friends and family (most notably, Tony). Clint could hear their daughter squealing "ew" from her seat with Jane, and he broke off their kiss to chuckle softly. Seven year olds still thought kissing was gross –Clint was not looking forward to the day when her opinion changed on the matter. He watched as Aiden hopped off Fury's lap and raced over to sit next to his sister. 

It was Bucky who approached the podium next. He glanced over at where Clint and Phil were seated next to each other. "May you grow old together on one pillow." He nodded briefly and waited for the applause to die down before returning to his seat. 

"He really did keep it short and sweet," Clint murmured, wondering why he was surprised. Bucky hated speaking at events even more than Clint did. 

"More time to eat and dance after," Phil commented softly. 

"You know," Tony said, as he got up and headed over to the stage. "Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity." He grinned. "However, nine years of engagement? That's a whole other level of commitment, guys. We've been calling bets on this for the last ten years. And I can honestly say I'm happy for you both. May your ups and downs be between the sheets –" Phil rolled his eyes and Clint snickered "–and may you see each other through many dark days and make all the rest a little brighter." 

With a grand bow, Tony took to his seat as Bruce went up to the stage next. "They say love is blind, but I don't know if I believe that. Everyone within a twenty mile radius –or who's known you two for more than an hour or so –can clearly see ridiculous amounts of love between you two. May you continue to find happiness in each other." 

It was Thor who stood up next. In his years on Earth, Thor had managed to become slightly less long-winded. And Clint had been assured by Jane that she had spoken to Thor quite thoroughly about appropriate lengthy wedding speeches or toasts that could be made. But Thor didn't approach the podium, as usual. He didn't need a microphone or a stage so he could be heard or seen. 

"May the light of friendship guide your paths together, may the laughter of children grace your halls, and may the joy of living for one another trip a smile from your lips and a twinkle from your eye. My friends, it is joyous to see you officially unite as one. May Freyja watch over you and gift you life-long love; may you bear all the children you please, and stay safe in battles yet fought." 

These days there were always laughter in their house. With two kids under ten, it didn't seem like it was going to end anytime soon. Clint certainly hoped it didn't. He liked his children just the way they were. Phil smiled next to him and leaned in close. "I think we have all the children we desire, don't we?" 

"Definitely," Clint said vehemently. "We're too old to have any more." 

"I said that once, and look where we ended up." 

"With two precious kids," Clint said. 

Thor sat down and Fury rose next, stalking onto the stage. He wasn't wearing his black leather coat which was just surreal. He looked like an actual human being but Clint would only remember him as being his boss. 

"I don't get dressed up for just anyone, but when two people who are so in love tell me I have to put on fancy clothes, this is what happens. I know the recipe for a good marriage is mutual respect, and Phil and Clint have both in spades. A long life of love will then follow. May your laugh, your love and your wine be plentiful, thus your happiness be nothing less." 

And with that, the food was brought out and everyone dug in. It was ridiculous how in love he felt when he had been living with and engaged to Phil for the last nine years, but he was just basking in his husband's presence. Across from them, they could see their kids bickering with each other and their cousins. Cooper and Lila seemed to have been completely engaged in whatever conversation they were having. Around them, their friends were sharing stories and laughing with each other. 

Despite their long engagement, Clint and Phil had rarely struggled the same way Steve and Bucky had or Bruce and Tony had. Taking everyone by surprise had been Bruce and Tony's marriage nearly ten years ago. Thor and Jane were next, as she had gotten tired of never knowing whether she would see him again or not. It had been quite the shock for all of them when Odin had blessed the marriage and allowed Thor to split his time between Asgard and Earth. Steve and Bucky were next, but it took them a number of years to work out their issues. Honestly, Clint was mostly relieved at the fact that they could all sit down like this to celebrate. A few years back it had been fairly touch and go. Natasha wasn't married but she was living with Matt these days. Their relationship seemed more work than play, but it worked for both of them. Clint was just happy that Natasha was happy. 

As the evening drew to a close, Clint went and grabbed his and Phil's bags. He was grateful that their friends had agreed to babysit for them. As nice as it would have been to just spend the day with their children, it was as nice to get a break. Both of their children were surprises –after that initial conversation with Dr. Taylors, Clint never went back and checked to see whether or not he would be able to have children. He just assumed it wouldn't happen. And for the half a dozen times he and Phil had been tied together, nothing ever came of it. Clint assumed it was because of the suppression drugs and Phil assumed it was because he was too old and partly because of the side-effects of his revival. Neither of them went to check with a doctor because it had long been decided between them that they didn't need more in their family. They were happy with each other. And then, about seven years ago, Clint started feeling sick and bloated and one thing led to another and Phil bossed him into seeing a doctor –where Clint learned he was expecting. 

It was a rough birth, long and painful and the doctors suggested that it was practically a miracle that they had managed to have one child and not to expect to have anymore. And so they hadn't. They'd both taken what time they could afford to spend at home with their darling baby girl [ -Katherine Julie Coulson. ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/3d/52/42/3d52424031080f4323189e876e8136b0.jpg)And a few years after her birth, they agreed to try adopting. Katie wanted a sibling and neither Clint nor Phil were averse to expanding their family. It took a year and a bit, but they gladly welcomed [Aiden Charles ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/6a/55/4a/6a554a7d6007bedd6b55ca3d3f05d6dd.jpg) into their family. With Katie, Clint had taken a year off from being a superhero in order to get back into shape and to look after her. Phil was always busy being the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. but if he could work from home, he did that instead. And as amazing as their precious children were, having some time away from home where there was no one and no work to interrupt them was going to be fantastic. They hugged their children goodbye; tiny Katie with her honey-blonde hair and chubby Aiden with his dark hair and eyes. They'd only recently started keeping an eye on his weight, but the pediatrician assured them it was healthy weight although to keep an eye on him because Aiden might develop an allergy with little notice or diabetes. 

Katie was seven years old and all happy tears at seeing her daddies get married. She would probably spend the rest of the week talking about her flower girl duties. Aiden was six years old and always fidgeting with his bowtie, largely uninterested in the ceremony but definitely interested in the other kids his age and in seeing his aunts and uncles. But he understood that they were leaving and he gave them each a smacking kiss on their cheeks before toddling off to go stand with his chosen babysitter. Katie gave them each a big hug and a kiss before she followed after Aiden. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me throughout this journey. I started writing this back in December as a means to get myself used to writing again because it had been four years since I'd last started and finished a big project. I'm one third of the way through this project and I am going to stick by it. 
> 
> The next part to this will be Bruce/Tony's story. It won't be as long as this one, because I can't envision a way it would require that but I expect Steve and Bucky's will be approximately this length. I've decided to do Bruce/Tony next because I can set it around Iron Man 3 and not move from that fixed point rather than ignoring the events of Iron Man 3 and jumping into CATWS, AOU and potentially Civil War. 
> 
> I hope to see you all when I get the next part up and going. :)

**Author's Note:**

> City of Angels -Thirty Seconds to Mars  
> Everyone Wants to Rule the World -Lorde  
> After the Storm -Mumford and Sons  
> Thistle and Weeds -Mumford and Sons  
> The Bird and the Worm -The Used  
> Run Boy Run -Woodkid  
> Monster -Imagine Dragons  
> Dirty Paws -Of Monsters and Men  
> Earth -Sleeping at Last  
> Who Are You Really? -Mikky Ekko  
> I Bet My Life -Imagine Dragons  
> Breathe Me In -Jared and the Mill  
> Two Hearts Set On Fire -Shawn Hook  
> The Enemy -Mumford and Sons  
> Bad Blood -Bastille  
> Try -P!nk  
> Origin of Love -MIKA


End file.
